


So Happy Together

by felinefemme



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bad romcom, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Gen, Humor, Korean drama cliches, Male-female roomate cliches, Sherlock cliches, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 13:33:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 55
Words: 57,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1389538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felinefemme/pseuds/felinefemme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I wanted to write an AU where Molly Hooper & Sherlock Holmes are in a Korean comedy-drama, co-ed roomie situation, shoehorning both K-drama & BBC Sherlock clichés into one fanfic!  Yes!  The events and timelines are different, so there’s no Moriarty, so no TGG or Reichenbach.  So here they are, all Sherlolly & everything, Merry Christmas!  XD</p><p>Cross-posted on fanfiction.net</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Molly Hooper was having a terrible morning. First, Toby was suddenly and wretchedly ill at 3 a.m. that morning, necessitating a much-stuttered call to the vet, who would only take her cat during office hours, so 7 a.m. at the earliest. Great. Just, just great.

Just as she’d gotten Toby to settle down and drink something without it having come up again, her landlord knocked loudly and told her he was selling the building and that she’d have to find a new place by the end of the week. Brilliant.

And then her mum, who seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to bad timing, rang up. “I know it’s a bit early, dear, but I never seem to catch you otherwise. I was wondering when you’d settle down with a nice young man and come back home? We never see you any more, your brother and I.” 

The long-haired brunette, who was usually the most patient, in fact, most long-suffering, person in London, took a deep breath, trusted her voice not to shake, and quietly lied, “Sorry, Mum, I’m late for work. I’ll call you later.” She could be polite to her family, but when her cat was feeling so horrible, and she was about to be homeless shortly, well, she was afraid she’d burst into tears in a moment of weakness. Unlike the mums on the telly, her mother would only use her bad news as ammunition against her, rather than encouraging her to find a nicer flat closer to her job.

Then she checked her watch and squeaked. “Okay, Toby, I know you don’t like it, but we’ve got to get you out,” she tried to cajole her tabby into a better mood, but her cat wailed heart-wrenchingly, scrabbling at the edge of the cat carrier. It took her ten minutes to get Toby into the carrier, and ten more to change out of her nightclothes and into her work clothes, because otherwise she’d be late to work. As she waited for the bus, she cast a hopeful look at the sky. “As least it’s a lovely day,” she mused, a corner of her mouth going up before the other side followed, turning into a smile.

Which was when the sky elected to dump a ton of rain on her head.


	2. Chapter 2

“Your brother’s upstairs,” Mrs. Hudson told Sherlock Holmes as they bumped into each other, one returning, the other heading out.

_I knew that already,_ he would’ve told her, except, thanks to John Watson, he’s learned some manners. Not all, but some. “You’re too kind,” he says instead, meaning the tea that she made his odious brother, and stalked upstairs. “What now,” he grumped, whatever was left of his post-case adrenaline rush now leaching out of his system like air from a punctured balloon.

Mycroft was looking altogether smug and self-satisfied as he sat in Sherlock’s seat, tea and saucer in hand. The tea had just cooled, and Sherlock inwardly cursed the second law of thermodynamics. “Find a new flatmate,” he said succinctly, his voice crisp and clear, in spite of the noise Sherlock was now making with his violin.

The curly-haired man glared at his flat-haired ( _And balding!_ he added triumphantly to his inner voice) older brother, not ceasing in almost literally sawing at his Stradivarius. “Why?” he said, feeling his lower lip pulling upward into a pout.

His unfortunately-not-as-fat-as-he-used-to-be older brother raised an eyebrow. “You know why. If you can’t afford to pay, we would love to have you back--”

“No, absolutely not,” Sherlock interrupted. There were numerous reasons why he would never go back home, one very large one sitting across from him. “I found John, no reason why I shouldn’t find another.”

Mycroft scoffed, his tea cup now empty. “I believe it was Mike Stamford who introduced the two of you,” he said, “how many long-suffering people do you think he knows, hm?”

Sherlock glared at him, before an idea came to mind. He jumped out of his seat, almost but not quite flinging the violin and bow behind the skull, and shoved his arms back into his coat. “Try not to eat all the biscuits,” he sneered, “wouldn’t want to regain whatever pounds you’ve lost.”

The British Government made a face. “Try not to antagonize Stamford too much,” he called out as Sherlock went down the stairs two and three at a time, “he’s got a heart condition!”

“La’erz!” the consulting detective threw over his shoulder before bounding back out. He had a flatmate to catch.


	3. Chapter 3

Molly had just finished reassuring both her supervisor and her cat that the other would be just fine in the morgue when she breathed a sigh of relief. “All right, then,” she smiled brightly at Toby, who had settled down unwillingly in his cat carrier, “let’s get started, shall we?” She pulled on her gloves, then clicked on the recorder. “Beginning with the Y-incision,” she said, picking up the scalpel and using the angle of the blade to slice through skin and muscle, “it ap--”

“Molly Hooper, move in with me!” the door flew open, and she whirled around with a squeak, pulling the scalpel out of the body as she did so.

“Good heavens!” she gasped, putting a free hand to her chest. “Don’t do that!” She glared at the consulting detective, who was giving her the same dispassionate look that she usually gave the bodies on the slab.

“It’s not as if you were going to hurt him,” Sherlock shrugged a little, glancing at the body before returning his near-emotionless gaze on her.

She could still feel her heart thudding in her chest, but forced herself to peel her hand away from it, as her hand couldn’t possibly slow down her rapid pulse. Just to be on the safe side, she put the scalpel away, too. “N-no, but it would’ve ruined the results of the autopsy,” she replied. Then she frowned, remembering what he said when he burst in. “Why do you want me to move in with you?”

“Because you need to,” he said in his usual high-handed way, “you don’t have much time, I suggest you start sending your things over tonight.”

“But, but, but,” she stammered. There were so many objections she could think of, a big one being that he was a boy and she was a girl!

He sighed heavily, as if she were the one being unreasonable. Perhaps in his mind, he thought so, as he usually thought the entire world was. “But what?” he snapped.

She blinked, her eyes feeling larger than usual in the face of his impatient and seemingly all-knowing expression. “But, how do you know I need a new flat? Why me?”

His full lips flattened slightly, then went off into an explanation at his usual breakneck speed, “You’ve been making noises to John the past few weeks about how high your rent has gotten, but rather than improving the appearance of the building, the money appears to be going to your landlord’s new boyfriend instead, I’ve seen them driving out in a new Lamborghini,” he said to her raised eyebrows, “things have come to a head because your cat, who never, ever gets sick, but is very sensitive to change, according to your blog, got violently ill this morning, by the state of your shoes,” and she looked down to see she hadn’t cleaned it off very well at all, “obviously your landlord decided to spring the news this morning, as it was raining this morning and you didn’t want to go back to your flat and risk running across him again, he could possibly have more bad news to spring on you, and he does, he’s already got a buyer and wants everyone moved out tomorrow, but has to allow for complete evacuation before the building is knocked down and paved over to make a new parking structure to pay for his whirlwind European vacation with said boyfriend.”

“Whaaaat?” Molly can almost feel her eyes falling out of her head.

“And I need a new flatmate, now that John’s gone and married,” Sherlock said sourly, as if the sordid story of her morning paled in comparison. Perhaps it did, to him. “So, you need a flat and I need a new flatmate, and I doubt you’ll find any place with affordable rates that will let you keep your cat,” he narrowed his eyes at the carrier, and Molly could almost swear Toby narrowed his eyes back, “we have the coincidence of being previously acquainted, you are familiar with my methods and hours, and I have the experience of having had a flatmate longer than a week. Ergo, move in with me, as soon as possible, for yours and Mrs. Hudson’s peace of mind.” The corners of his lips lifted into a business-like smile.

Molly’s eyebrows lifted. Oh yes, Mrs. Hudson, she liked the elder woman a lot. That the landlady still wanted Sherlock as a tenant spoke volumes more about the situation than did Sherlock himself, and that’s what clinched it for her. “Fine,” she said, pulling the glove off her right hand and sticking it out, “be prepared for a ton of pink things to arrive at 221B Baker Street.”

Now Sherlock’s eyebrows went up, but he shook her hand briskly. “Mr. Underwood there didn’t die merely of a respiratory attack, but was poisoned. You might want to expand your toxicology tests to include that.” Then he swept out, his stiff coat twirling as he did so, as suddenly as he came in.

When even the hallway was clear of his presence, Molly sagged against the counter. “Oh my,” she sighed, putting a hand back to her chest. This was going to be such a big mistake, but Sherlock was right, she didn’t have many choices in terms of rate and leniency towards pets, and she was on a deadline. Then she shook her head, pulled on another glove for her right hand, and rewound the recorder. “Let’s try this again, shall we?” she smiled at Toby, who snuffled and looked away. Well, at least there’d be another boy to keep her cat company, and they were really so much alike, it won’t be all that bad…


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock found himself trying to tidy up for the first time since, well, he and John Watson moved into 221B four years ago. He frowned, reminding himself not to think about that little traitor, moving one pile of papers on top of another, then gives up. He knows how unforgivably fortunate he was in not only knowing Stamford, but that Stamford knew John, and that John had been in need of a flat. He had been in need of so much more, and Sherlock thought that they would have a good long life together in the flat. He’d forgotten one thing, as he tends to have done so often with John, that John wanted female companionship in a more permanent fashion. That they came across Mary Morstan through a case was statistically understandable, the fact that she stole his friend from him, not so much. There were many Marys in the world, Sherlock thought, but there weren’t many John Watsons like his John. He knows because he’d checked. And the combination of army doctor was on the rise, but not many turned out to be interesting like John.

He was starting to get into A Mood, which was Not Good, according to John and Lestrade, and he needed Molly to stay. Of course, she was attracted to him, that much was obvious, so getting her here wasn’t hard. Getting her to stay on as his flatmate was another matter entirely. He hadn’t told Mrs. Hudson or John or anyone exactly who he’d gotten to be his new flatmate, as he’d just learned from Molly’s expression and words that it was A Bit Not Good either. It was so hard to remember what was Good and what wasn’t, and usually, he couldn’t be arsed to bother about it.

Then he heard Mrs. Hudson’s unsteady tread up the stairs, due to carrying a full tea tray, before he saw her carrying the very thing. “Whoo-hoo!” she called out. “I do hope you keep this doctor,” she said, “I’m sure he’ll be another fine one like John.” Then she looked around, putting the tray down. “He’s got quite a bit more belongings, though,” she noted, “he must quite--”

“Hello!” Molly called out from the bottom of the stairs.

“Oh, Molly,” Mrs. Hudson smiled at the long-haired woman coming up, “you’re just in time.”

She blinked, “In time for what?” She put down the cat carrier and looked around, as if trying to believe that she’d actually be living here, rather than just visiting. Sherlock found himself mentally doing the same thing.

“To meet our new renter,” the elder woman beamed, and Sherlock groaned softly behind her. “A… Dr. Hooper, I believe,” she added.

Molly laughed. “Oh, Mrs. Hudson,” she said, “I’m Dr. Hooper. Dr. Molly Hooper.” Her pleased smile faded when she saw the dawn of comprehension on Mrs. Hudson’s face and Sherlock’s perplexing and sudden inability to hide his discomfort. Then she frowned up at Sherlock. “You, you didn’t tell her I’d be staying here?”

“Of course I did,” he blustered, “I said ‘Dr. Hooper will be staying here as my new flatmate’. Yes?”

Mrs. Hudson turned to give him a no-nonsense look. “You led me to believe another man would be here,” she said, “nothing about a girl.”

“Oh! Um, if this is a problem..,” Molly sputtered, her gaze bouncing between the two of them.

“Not a problem at all,” Sherlock waved his hand, “she knows I’m married to my work, and I know that she’s got a cat that’s used up at least two of its lives surviving on the streets. Molly, you and your cat will be in John’s room, and Mrs. Hudson, be nice to her, because according to John, I’m not nice to anybody.” Then he went into the kitchen and continued to monitor the experiment on toenails he was working on before he was so rudely interrupted by Mycroft this morning. As expected, they carried on without him, which is what he wanted in the first place. Yes.

The elder woman sighed, then said, “Better sit down and have a cuppa.”

“Thanks,” Molly responded happily, “how do you like your tea?” They were only in the next room, how could they be so loud?

“Oh, I’ll like having you around,” she said, “smart, and sensible. Just two sugars, please. What’s your cat’s name?”

“Toby,” Molly said, the clinking sound of porcelain sounding in the semi-quiet of 221B. “Would you mind if I take him out?”

“I’d love to meet him,” Mrs. Hudson said warmly. “Oh my, he’s a rather self-possessed tabby, isn’t he?”

“Yes, he is,” Molly smiled, or at least, it sounded that way. He hoped her lips weren’t twitching, the girl was far too nervous at the oddest times. “He’s sweet, but he needs to know where everything is. They told me at the shelter that he’d been living on the streets for a few years before the shelter got him. His scars are barely visible, I could scarcely tell! I wonder how Sherlock knew?” When the white and gray tabby came into his view, however, he grabbed the cat before it was even a foot from the toenail slides. “Oh no, Toby!”

“Molly Hooper, I will not have this creature disturb my experiments!” Sherlock said, carrying the cat out by the scruff of his neck.

The pathologist grabbed her cat as safely and quickly as possible, hugging the squirming creature to herself. “You,” her eyes blazed although her lips trembled, “you shouldn’t leave anything out that would hurt Toby!”

He looked surprised. Usually, it was easy to bully the mousy girl into doing what he wanted, but he supposed that being protective of her pet caused a fierceness that was otherwise not expressed. Lesson noted. However, that wouldn’t mean he would back down easily, either. He was here first. “Isn’t it your responsibility to train your cat better?”

“Cats aren’t the same as dogs!” Molly shot back. “You can’t just say ‘sit’ and expect him to do just that!”

“Why not?” Sherlock frowned.

“’Cos cats just don’t do that!” She shook her head, her shaking ponytail fascinating the cat into trying to paw at it. “It would be like asking you to be polite!” Then it seemed she realized what she was saying and to whom she was saying, and she gasped. “Oh, no, I’m sorry, I didn’t -- !”

Mrs. Hudson unsuccessfully smothered a laugh behind her hand, and Sherlock frowned at her. “Sorry, I’ll leave you two to get things sorted out. I wish Sherlock had told me you were coming, I’d have made the place more presentable.” Then she gave Sherlock a pointed look, which he pointedly ignored. “But just this once. I’m your landlady, not your housekeeper.”

“Oh, it’s no problem!” Molly cried out. “We’ll be fine!”

The landlady seemed sufficiently reassured by this, and went downstairs. And to Sherlock’s surprise, the petite pathologist walked into the living room with the cat around her shoulders, and, after boosting it up with her knee, she proceeded to haul up the biggest and heaviest box up the stairs. She may have had help with delivering her things, but it was obvious that she carried her boxes out herself. He always got one thing wrong. A shame it was her hideous strength that he underestimated.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, the girl unloaded half of her boxes’ contents into the kitchen. “We’ve already got silverware and dishes,” Sherlock said, a little confused.

Her mouth did a funny wiggle, and she almost smiled as she started labeling drawers. Perhaps it’s a doctor thing, this need to label things, he supposed.


	5. Chapter 5

She was on the swing shift that day, so she’d barely had time to unpack all her clothes when she had to leave for work. She was in a fairly good mood, for the most part, having a new place to live, a place that would let Toby be, and Mrs. Hudson and her wonderful tea cakes and scones. Life was wonderful, and Molly felt herself almost floating in satisfaction through several corpses.

Later that night, however, Molly came stomping down the stairs in a bathrobe, a towel on her head, and her bath kit in hand. “Sherlock,” she said, not sure if she was scared, angry or shocked. Perhaps all of the above, and for good reason.

“Yes?” he said, his eyes still glued to whatever was under the microscope.

“There’s some kind of nasty, filthy, I-don’t-know-what sludgy thing coming out of the taps in the bath!” she cried.

“Oh, yes,” he said absent-mindedly, “it’s an experiment.”

She found herself taking deep breaths. She’s not sure when exactly he turned from a crush into a crazed lunatic, but she’s fairly sure it was about ten second ago. “So the taps were fine before?” she asked in what she hoped was an even tone.

“Yes.” She could see why John had such a long-suffering face, when he wasn’t haring off on a case with Sherlock.

“For how long has it been running?”

“About a year or so,” he said.

“And you didn’t think to tell me about it???” she said, hysterical anger starting to surface as tears choked her throat.

“Mmm, no, not really.”

That did it. The tears came, full force, with as much energy as they had when she first found out she’d be kicked out of her previous flat. Her bottom lip trembled when she realized her flatmate was staring at her like she’d turned into an equation that just didn’t add up. Right. He obviously didn’t have any sisters, and his mother was either a saint or insane to put up with him as long as she had. He obviously wasn’t the type to offer comfort, or sane answers, either, so she may as well tell him straight-forward why she was falling apart in the living room. “Sherlock,” she sniffled, wiping her nose on her sleeve in a decidedly unhygienic fashion, “when I come home from a long day at work, I want to have a nice long bath. I do not want to have some nasty slime dripping on my person, and I do NOT want the plumbing to be the subject of an experiment. If there is any need for repairs, please let me know in advance. In the meantime, please, cease your experiment in my bathroom immediately and fix the plumbing.” She drew herself up with as much dignity as a woman in a fuzzy pink bathrobe covered in purple cat paws could be, and asked, “There’s nothing disgusting in your bathroom, is there?”

It was a bit disturbing to see him actually think about it for a moment. “No, not for you.”

“What do you mean, ‘not for me’?” she frowned.

His lip lifted up in something like a facial shrug. “You’re not going to scream if there are jars of preserved organs in the medicine cabinet.” She stared at him. “The taps run just fine in there.”

She heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” she said wearily, feeling as if she’d gone tens rounds of boxing with her younger brother, and locked herself in the bathroom. He was right, the taps ran fine, even if there were organs in the cabinet (she checked), but she didn’t care. She was in bubble bath heaven, and everything was lovely.

That is, until Sherlock burst into the bathroom, his lips curled up in disgust. “Your cat vomited all over my bed!” he complained.

“Sherlock!” she squeaked, ducking further under the protective cover of the bubbles, her hands over her chest, just in case. “I locked the door!”

He rolled his eyes, “That’s not important.”

Yes, it is! She wanted to say, but instead stammered, “B-but I’m in the bath!”

“Yes, so far, so obvious,” he shook his head, his tone a parody of patience. As she continued to squeak in protest, he went on, “About your cat, you said he should be fine with the medication. My linens say that he is not.”

“He is fine! Um, mostly.” She slid as far under the bubbles as she could, but her thighs were poking up higher, and this was getting really embarrassing. Squeezing her eyes shut as if that would keep him from seeing her, she wailed, “Could you please leave? You’re so embarrassing.”

He looked taken aback. “How am I embarrassing? And why are you closing your eyes shut like that?”

That was not helping. “Sherlock?” she asked in a small voice.

“Yes?”

“Are you done fixing the taps upstairs?” His pale eyes skittered to the side. “It’ll take some time.”

Of course it will, she thought, resigned. “Toby will continue to vomit on your bed until then, I can assure you,” she said, hiding a victorious smirk because she knows it’ll be a while before her cat would stop doing that.

Sherlock ran out, slamming the door behind him. “It’ll be fixed by tomorrow!” he called out in a carrying voice.

Molly debated the merits of suicide by drowning, then decided against it. She was bloated enough as it was, her body would look and smell hideous as it decomposed, in spite of the bubble bath. Plus, Sherlock would be the first to find her, and she’d die of embarrassment all over again to have his cold, pale eyes sum up and dismiss her in death as in life.

She shook her head, scattering bubbles as she did so. _If John could survive being Sherlock’s flatmate, then dammit, so can I!_


	6. Chapter 6

_If I could survive being John’s flatmate, I can survive being Molly’s!_ Sherlock thought grimly as he cleared out the last of the experiment from her plumbing, consigning it to the bins in hazmat-grade disposal bags. The pathologist had complained about him charging into the loo, and then complained that she now had nowhere to sleep, since he was working in her room. He’d offered his rarely-used bed, which brought a strange blush to her cheeks, but she replaced the soiled duvet and bedsheets, then locked herself in his room, nonetheless. _Humans were strange creatures, and women more so,_ he mused, _or perhaps it was just my share of flatmates._ John had his share of peccadilloes, the strongest of which being that Sherlock not touch his battered tin box. It was odd, as Sherlock already knew the man kept his medals and various childhood knickknacks within, but it was something that his flatmate felt strongest about, even more so than keeping eyeballs out of the teapot. So he left it alone, as the answer to the mystery was too obvious for words.

He went back upstairs and introduced cleaning fluids to the pipes, and that would take some time as well, so he went downstairs, washed his hands, and nearly stepped on the blasted cat when retrieving his mobile. He curled his lip at the creature, who returned the expression with a soft hiss, and they both went their separate ways, the cat to living room window and Sherlock to his mistress’ laptop on the last packing box. It was even easier to crack Molly’s code than it was John’s, which didn’t surprise him. His eyes hurt from all the pink and “cute” things on her computer wallpaper, but he refrained from changing it. After all, there would be too many windows open shortly to look at it, and he skipped through different messages from various people on his phone while looking up different sedatives for felines. He is not going to have a nervous cat throwing up on his bed, even if he rarely sleeps there. It’s a matter of principle, after all.

He mentally marks down a couple, then looks up Molly’s veterinarian, and saves the name and number in his mobile. He then tersely replies to John’s semi-hysterical pleas for sanity, Mary’s somewhat-saner pleas, Mycroft’s rude suggestions for new living accommodations, and Lestrade bothering him about a case that was only a four. A four! Really! He’s not that bored yet!

Then he frowns. He’s not that bored yet, and he thought he’d be bored to tears by this point, paying flatmate or no. Before he can think as to why that is, Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 17 runs out, his mental half-hour timer, and he wiped every trace of his presence from Molly’s laptop before going back upstairs to empty the cleaning fluids from the pipes. When he satisfies himself as to the cleanliness of the plumbing and the soundness of the fittings, he goes about replacing the wall panels. It seemed the repairs are taking longer than the original experiment’s setup, and he frowned for a moment. No, it only seemed that way because Molly was using her nauseous cat as a threat, whereas John was out to some medical conference or other dull business, and Sherlock could take his time in setting up the experiment. Come to think of it, John wasn’t all that pleased about the bath taps, either, but he didn’t cry. Yelled quite a bit, it seems, and nearly took Sherlock’s head off in the process, but didn’t cry. It would have been odd for a man to cry, right? Was it odd? Yes, given John’s tendency towards anger rather than tears, and the tendency for males within his age and background to react in anger than in grief, it would have been odd.

Once he was satisfied with his repair work, he decided that he would be the first to use the newly-cleaned and properly-working taps. He smirked, childishly enjoying that fact, then promptly stripped off his soiled clothes. He walked downstairs, retrieved his toiletries from his bathroom, and indulged in the fact that he was using Molly’s bathtub taps before she could. But he used the shower, not the bath, as it was too small, and he wasn’t a bath person. For some reason, he was uncommonly tired, and after toweling off, he wandered over to Molly’s bed, pulled the cool bedsheet over his body, and slept a dreamless sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

Molly woke up under white blankets on a white pillow, thoroughly disoriented as her mobile alarm went off. _Why are the blankets white?_ she wondered, slapping her alarm shut. She frowned, and then yesterday’s events came to her. “Oh, dear,” she groaned, “smashing way to start things off as flatmates.”

She pushed the covers off, unlocked the door ( _“Thank God it’s still locked!”_ she thought), and smiled when she saw Toby. “Oh, sweet baby,” she said as the cat jumped into her arms, “don’t worry, the big bad man’s going to behave himself.” Then she thought about what she said, and sighed, “No, I doubt that. Just be careful, all right? Mommy’s going to make some tea, because she’s got a feeling that today’s going to be another long day.” And, after checking to make sure her teapot and things weren’t tampered with, that’s exactly what she did. Then she poured Toby’s food into his bowl, refilled his water bowl, and smiled as the tabby took a couple of laps of water before chowing down. “Slow down, boy,” she murmured, “you don’t want to get sick again, do you?” She patted his back, and he paused, wondering at the interruption, and she smiled again. “Silly cat. Go on, you.”

And they went on their morning routine, she with her tea and he with his cat food. Unlike her previous flat, they had a lovely view of the neighborhood, and she stared out the window. “Gosh, this place must cost a pretty penny, I’m surprised Mrs. Hudson doesn’t charge more. Don’t tell her I said that,” she winked at her cat, who didn’t pay her any mind, as usual. Then she allowed her eyes to roam the bookshelves briefly before refilling her teacup. 

After downing her second cup, she gave Toby one last pat before going upstairs. The upstairs bathroom door was open, and she allowed herself a steadying breath before peeking inside. It looked clean, aside from the towel Sherlock left on the floor, and she smiled at the pH litmus test strips on the sink’s edge. She turned on the taps, and the water smelled fresh, and, judging from the paper strips, they came out clean. She did the same to the sink taps, with the same results. With a sigh of relief, she brushed her teeth, then her hair, and went to her bedroom to change into some clean clothes, because she definitely wasn’t going to work in her fuzzy pink bathrobe!

She pulled her underwear out, then pulled out a checkered top. She yawned loudly, then pulled out a cream-colored top. Maybe this one..?

“The cream suits you better,” a baritone voice said from behind.

Molly yelped, and spun around. “What are you doing in my bed?” she squeaked, heat rising in her cheeks. Hurriedly, she stuffed the underwear into her pockets, but she doubted that would make a difference to Sherlock Holmes.

It didn’t look like his eyes were open from this perspective, but apparently they were. “The same thing you were doing in my bed, sleeping,” he responded in a decidedly lazy tone. “Well, I was, until you pulled that atrocious checked shirt out.”

She stared at him, then put the checkered top back into the drawer. “No case, then?”

“Not unless you count the boring one in Belgravia. It’s obvious the butler did it,” he mumbled, pulling the bedsheet over his head.

Molly couldn’t help it, she laughed. He poked his head from out under the sheet, looking decidedly disgruntled, and she laughed some more, albeit a bit uncomfortably. “I’m sorry,” she said, forgetting that he had even less reference to current and semi-current colloquialisms than she did. “It’s a joke, from, ah, bad pulp mysteries, that the butler always committed the crime.”

He blinked. “Oh.”

“Never mind,” she shook her head, pulling a pair of dark slacks from an open box. “You go back to sleep, and I’ll, uh, go change.” She went back to the bathroom, not sure why she’s blushing since she’s still rather angry at him for nearly destroying the bath in the first place. Even though she locks the door, she dresses as fast as humanly possible, just in case. The doorbell rings, and she’s doing up the last of her buttons, when the doorbell rings.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock groaned and pulled the bedsheet around himself. He was not leaving the flat for a paltry four, even if Lestrade was paying a housecall.

As he left Molly’s bedroom, the woman herself slammed into him, her eyes more fixed on buttoning the last button close to her navel. “Ow!” she cried. What followed was a series of interesting faces, unlike John’s in expression, but just as varied. Her eyes widened, her cheeks reddened, and then she covered her face with her hands, freezing in place. “Sher, Sherlock,” she practically whimpered.

“Yes?”

“Why are you wearing a bedsheet?”

“Because Lestrade is here,” he said, _isn’t that obvious?_ was the none-too-subtle intonation.

The hands seem to be pressing deeper against her face. “What does Lestrade have to do with you wearing a bedsheet?”

This is nonsense, he thought impatiently. “Because my clothes are in the room you were sleeping in, and you seem to have an even bigger problem with locked doors than John,” he grumbled, when an idea came to him. She seemed very discomfited with his semi-nudity, might as well pay her back for making him ruin his experiment and have to fix the plumbing. “You’ve seen naked bodies before, why does mine bother you?” he asked, using the self-same body to press her against the wall. The fact that it made part of the bedsheet fall off was an extra bonus.

The facial skin around her hands seem to be pinkening as well. Interesting. “They’re dead,” she said, muffled behind her hands.

His upper arms bracing against her head, he leaned into her face. “Yes, well, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before,” he said.

She dropped her hands, which seemed a mistake to her, because her eyes widened at how close he was. As if she couldn’t feel it when he pushed her against the wall! “But, but,” she stammered, and he smiled. This was fun.

“Am I interrupting something?” a gruff voice asked.

They turned to see Mrs. Hudson and DI Lestrade looking up at them from the bottom of the stairs, the first grinning while the other looked tired. Sherlock could understand the second expression, but not the first. “The butler did it,” Sherlock said in a bored voice, “unless you’ve got something better than the boring Belgravia case.”

The landlady’s lips twitched suspiciously, while Lestrade groaned. “Are you serious?” he asked.

“I’ve been informed that it’s something of a joke, but I assure you, it’s not,” the consulting detective said stiffly. “This case wasn’t even a five, why were you so worried about it?”

“The butler did it,” the grey-haired detective repeated glumly. “The butler. Figures he did. We found his body on the banks of the Thames this morning, so I was hoping for a live suspect.”

“Murdering the murderer?” Sherlock frowned, then smiled slowly. “Oh, this is interesting.” He realized he was still practically pinning the pathologist to the wall, and promptly removed himself from her person, bounding down the stairs to get dressed. “Can’t play now, Molly, there’s a double-homicide!” he said gleefully. “And you’ll have to re-do your buttons, they’re off by one.”

She glanced down and wailed. “I’m going to be late!”

Now Mrs. Hudson looked depressed as the young woman dashed into her bedroom, while Lestrade smirked. He will never understand Mrs. Hudson, although she’s an otherwise reliable woman.

In the few minutes it took for him to pull on some clothes, Molly and Mrs. Hudson were gone. “So, upper or lower banks?” Sherlock asked.

“Upper,” the DI answered, then asked, “Are you and Molly…?”

“Flatmates? Yes,” Sherlock said briskly. “She’s even more problematic than John.” He glared at the creature on the steps to the lobby. “She’s got a cat.”

“So why’s she staying with you, if you hate pets so much?” Lestrade wondered.

“I don’t hate pets, I’ve justneverhadonebefore,” Sherlock mumbled the last part.

The cat moved out of the way at the last minute, and Sherlock sniffed at the immature tactic. This was his flat, not the cat’s. Lestrade snorted, but shook his head when Sherlock glared at him. He needed to get out of the flat post haste, as that bloody cat was making enough of a nuisance right now. He practically ran out ahead of Lestrade, and caught a cab just as Lestrade was locking the door behind him. It had nothing to do with what the DI muttered under his breath, “Guess he can’t stand there being two of him there.” Nothing at all.


	9. Chapter 9

Molly found herself blushing at the most inappropriate moments that day, even though she was buttoned up right and her clothes went together well, for once. The worst was when she was texting John, who was kind enough to be worried about her sanity, and almost told him what happened that morning. Thank goodness it’s a text and not Skype, she thought, he’d be even more worried.

“Don’t worry about me,” she typed back, “enjoy your honeymoon!”

“Hard knowing my ex-flatmate is rooming with a very nice girl who should know better,” he typed back. “Isn’t there someplace else you could go?”

“No,” she replied simply, because, after finishing her first autopsy, that was the first thing she did, look for an available, cheap flat that would allow pets. Most places did allow birds and fish and such, but not four-legged mammals, and those that did were prohibitively expensive, especially if she planned to stay close to St. Bart’s. Drat. “Sorry,” she added belatedly.

“Well, I’ve told you everything you should look out for, but be careful,” John texted back. “Take care, Molly.”

“Thanks, I will,” she typed back, and added a smiley face. “Give Mary a hug for me!”

“Will do,” he wrote, and that was that.

She sighed, and buried her face in her hands. He certainly wasn’t the first boy she’s lived with, there was Billy, after all. And not the first one who’d gotten in her space, because there was college, after all. But Sherlock, well, he was quite fit, and more so that she could almost still feel when she closed her eyes. The blush came back in full force, and she sighed gustily. “He’s my flatmate, can’t be thinking like that,” she reminded herself, “remember the slime. Remember the slime!”

“Slime?” Meena frowned as she walked in. “What slime?”

“Oh God,” Molly groaned, and proceeded to relate last night’s events, minus the part that his barging in was when she was in the bath, and minus the fact that he was parading around in a bedsheet this morning. “I thought I knew what I was getting into rooming with Sherlock Holmes, but this is ridiculous!”

“I wish I could let you move in,” Meena commiserated, “but Tom’s allergic to cats.”

Molly smiled. Tom and Meena were an item, had been since meeting up at John and Mary’s wedding. She wished she had that kind of luck, but apparently, hers ran to sharing a flat with a self-described “high-functioning sociopath”. A little less rude, but no less mad than the first time he met John, and she really, really should have known that John barely smoothed the edges off. “Don’t worry,” she said brightly, more to cheer herself than her friend, “I have practically a whole floor to myself, and now that the plumbing’s fixed, I have a lovely bathtub I can sink into daily.”

Her coworker, who unfairly looked like an Egyptian goddess, smirked at her. “You can’t be hiding in the tub all the time,” she said, “he looks like he’s not a bad bloke to wake up to in the morning.”

“Well, um,” and to her horror, Molly blushed, remembering the morning’s events all over again.

That only made things worse. Meena leaned in. “Oh, do tell,” she grinned.

Fortunately for Molly, but unfortunately for Mr. Shane DeWitt, there was a body to be processed. Mr. DeWitt was the butler in Lestrade’s (and by default, Sherlock’s) case, so Molly found herself focused on the job, rather than whatever scenarios Meena had running through her mind, or whatever horribly embarrassing memories Molly had running through hers. By the time she had clocked out, and thankfully missed Sherlock and Lestrade during her lunch break, she had all but convinced herself that the morning’s, well, whatever that was, was a one-time thing. No more embarrassing moments for Molly Hooper, no sirree. Nothing that would make a mostly-sane pathologist run for the hills, her cat in her arms, nothing amiss from this time forth.

It was all working out fine, her little pep talks, splendid really, until she got kidnapped after work.


	10. Chapter 10

It took Lestrade half a minute less than Sherlock counted on before he threw the consulting detective against the morgue wall, away from the putrefying body. “What the hell are you playing at?” the grey-haired man hissed, away from the eyes of the living. “Molesting a nice girl like that?”

“I wasn’t molesting her!” Sherlock retorted. “That would indicate a kind of interest I don’t have in her.”

Lestrade gave him a look, still holding him against the wall with an arm. “Didn’t seem that way from where I stood,” he said, glaring hard.

The consulting detective stared right back. “Well, you miss everything of importance,” Sherlock sniffed. “I was only getting back at her for making me give up my experiment.”

Now Lestrade was confused. Well, more so than he usually was. “How the hell did that little girl get you to give up an experiment?” Sherlock’s lips tightened, but Lestrade yanked hard on his ear, as if he were two feet shorter and twenty years younger, and tilted his head at DeWitt’s body. “I’m curious as to how someone other than God and John Watson got you to do something, is all. Body’s not goin’ anywhere.”

Begrudgingly, Sherlock told him about last night, which led to his “revenge” this morning. “And that, detective inspector, as they say, is the whole story.”

“Reminder here,” Lestrade said, now looking five hours more weary than he did four minutes ago, “you will never do that to her again. That was more than Not Good, Sherlock, that’s grounds to kick you out of your flat and have a restraining order. And unlike most of the women you run across, Molly Hooper’s a good girl, with some semblance of normalcy. If you can manage to behave, I won’t feel the need to check up on you two every night.”

Sherlock looked affronted. “You haven’t needed to do that since--”

“Yeah,” Lestrade interrupted. “Don’t give me a reason to repeat that, all right? Now go and do your Sherlock-vision thing, and maybe we’ll get something to find whoever killed the butler.”

“Fine,” Sherlock’s lips flattened, but he did as he was requested, because he was really curious as to what else the opened body revealed. Then he pulled out his smartphone, scanned through the results, and grinned viciously. “I know where the killer is,” he said, and dashed out, followed belatedly by the DI.

A mild goose chase, an aborted interrogation, and an on-foot hunt later, DI Greg Lestrade arrested Darcy Willingham, a high-society darling (according to Lestrade) who had affairs with both the Belgrave victim, Sir George Williams, and the butler, DeWitt, which, unfortunately, had led to both their deaths, in that they were linked to the initial death, that of racecar driver Tony Schott-Williams, that had been in the papers for the last two weeks as a tragic accident. “Are you able to exhume the body?” Sherlock asked.

“What’s left of it,” Lestrade twisted his face. “You think we’ll have to check on how many of her exes are still alive?”

“Done that,” Sherlock said, “most are, except for these three. According to Willingham, she only really loved the driver, but when he said he was going to marry someone else, she killed him. Which led to her making the butler kill Williams, since he was looking into his cousin’s death, and then to her killing the butler herself. Love is truly a vicious motivator.”

Lestrade shook his head. “That wasn’t love, Sherlock,” he said soberly, and the consulting detective stared at him. “Love doesn’t make you kill someone like breaking a toy to keep it from falling into someone else’s hands. It makes you do crazy things, yeah, but it’s not destructive. It’s…”

“Positive?” Sherlock frowned, not really understanding. “You should get some sleep, Detective Inspector, you’re waxing as poetic as John on a bad day.”

“Yeah, well, he’s got a reason to,” the grey-haired man shook his head. “Remember, Sherlock, no molesting.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “All right, all right, just don’t link my name with that word again. That is so pedestrian.”

“Sherlock.”

“I promise.”


	11. Chapter 11

Thankfully, Molly had been warned by John about Mycroft Holmes, but that still didn’t negate the fact that this was incredibly disturbing. Her family certainly wouldn’t act this way, even if they did have tons of money and power, as Mycroft seemed to have. She thinks that Mum would just have a fluffier home, and Billy would have more money to flush down the toilet with booze, but otherwise, they wouldn’t really change. She really, really didn’t want to speculate what Mycroft would be like at her paygrade, thank you. As it was, it was hard not staring at the tall, blonde, and immaculately tailored man who sat next to her in the limousine, guessing he was some kind of assistant or right-hand man. It was equally hard not to gape at the immense palace she was driven to, and she’d been to Buckingham Palace as a child. Well, not inside, mind you, but this looks like what Buckingham should be like, or at least, a very good approximation thereof. There were no chairs in this room, and she doubted she’d be allowed to sit, if there were.

“Are, are you going to try to bully me into spying on Sherlock, too?” Molly finally stammered when the man with the umbrella finally came into view.

The very tall, very dapper man smiled at her insincerely. “Wherever do you people get these notions from?” he asked, his voice as refined as John said it would be.

Molly shrugged, a jerky, uncoordinated motion, because, unlike John, she’d never faced scary men before, armed or otherwise. She knows it’s a test, but it’s a test she’s afraid she’ll fail, precisely because, although she was warned, she was still not fully prepared. “Because you’ve done it before,” she answered, her voice rising up at the end, less a statement and more a question.

The shark-like smile became deeper, and now Molly can see the family resemblance. _How unfortunate that it had to come out like that,_ she thought wildly as he came closer. “Miss Hooper, what I want from you isn’t information,” he said.

“What’s that, then?” Molly squeaked. She hated how her voice sounded, just then, but at this moment, she honestly couldn’t help it.

Mycroft Holmes stared down at her from his impressive nose. “I want you to move out,” he said.

“What?” She stared at him, flabbergasted.

“I allowed John Watson to stay, because it appeared he had a stabilizing influence on my brother. You, on the other hand, manage to cause a number of,” he coughed, not so discreetly, “ _distractions_ and almost caused the destruction of the flat. I cannot have you around my brother any longer.”

She could feel her eyes almost pop from her skull. “ _I_ almost caused the flat’s destruction? Have you seen that foul, disgusting _filth_ that came from the taps?” she shuddered, remembering exactly what it looked like, oozing out of the bath. “And I wasn’t the one walking around in next-to-nothing, being a downright menace to my flatmate,” she mumbled, looking at her feet.

“I do apologize for my brother’s behavior,” he said stiffly.

“He should be the one apologizing, not you,” Molly sighed, then shook her head. “I’m sorry, I’m an older sibling myself to a wild younger brother. I know what it’s like.” She dared to lift her head a bit, only to find the elder Holmes brother with a similar gaze to his younger one, assessing, calculating, and more than just a bit unnerving. Her eyes dropped again. “Look, you probably know everything about me, good and not, not quite,” she said quietly. “But he asked me to be his flatmate, and I need a place to stay.”

“I know you do,” the elder Holmes said just as quietly, and she looked up. “That’s why I’m asking you to move to a better flat.”

“A, a _better_ flat?” she stammered. Now what was his game?

“Yes,” he said, his smile indulgent. “Before I was so rudely interrupted,” and she forced herself not to roll her eyes, she did nothing of the sort, “I want you to move to a flat closer to your place of occupation, for your benefit, of course.”

Of course. Right. And now she knows what exactly to say, even if she can’t entirely trust her voice to follow along. “Mr. Holmes, I regretfully decline your offer,” she said, as politely as she could, even if it was softer and more hesitant than she would have liked.

“Oh? Why is that?” he said, his tones echoing hers in civility.

And now she smiled, not caring if she’d be sent to Siberia. “Because Toby likes him.”

The look Mycroft Holmes, a.k.a. The British Government, gives her is nothing short of priceless. “What? Your cat, the one that vomited on his bed?”

The smile stayed on her face. “Yes.” The white and gray-striped tabby had thrown up all over her bed that first week, but he’s been the most affectionate, most faithful pet ever since. There’s no doubt that Toby’s instincts with Sherlock are sound, even if she doesn’t quite understand the man. “If you wouldn’t mind, could you please take me home now? I’m sure Toby needs his medication by now, and Sherlock probably wouldn’t know what to feed him in the first place.”

The eyebrow raised now said, _True_ , but aloud, he said, “I do hope you won’t regret your decision, Miss Hooper.”

“It, it’s _Doctor_ Hooper, and no, I won’t,” she said firmly, albeit stumbling a bit, hoping she’ll still mean it the next time Sherlock performs another experiment in the flat.

To her relief, the British Government merely turned and walked away, and a few moments later, the gorgeous man, erm, assistant came in and told her, in a voice like silk, “I’m to take you home.”

“Oh, thank God,” Molly fluttered, relief causing her to be a bit weak in the knees as she walked to the limo.


	12. Chapter 12

“Did he try to bribe you, too?” Sherlock asked in a bored tone, lying on the sofa. Inside, however, he was wondering if she’d be throwing anything, or if she’d be the type to be crying to the police (so far, he hadn’t heard anything on that end), or anything else that Lestrade had threatened. He kept forgetting that Molly, in spite of her profession, was a Normal Girl, and therefore had things like feelings and all that. Perhaps he should look for another flatmate, although it looked like she came through Mycroft’s bribery just fine.

He could hear, if not see, her exasperation as she unloaded the grocery bags into the kitchen. “Yes.” And she went to feed the blasted furry creature instead of continuing to talk to him.

He waited for approximately three minutes before he gave in. “Did you take it?” he called out from the sofa, impatiently.

She came out, smiling. Why was she smiling? She took it, didn’t she? It figures. Then again, he shouldn’t place such high hopes on a civilian, especially a mousy one like her. His behavior this morning probably didn’t help, although he never would have thought about it except for Lestrade almost beating the point home. “I thought about it,” she said, then looked at her cat, who was making a mess of the food it was supposed to be eating. “But then, who would feed you?”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

She went back into the kitchen when the microwave sounded, coming out with a couple of plates of food. “He wanted to give me a better flat, closer to work,” she said, “and I thought about it.”

His lower lip went up. “You _thought_ about it?”

It was obvious that she was thinking about withholding information, but thought better of it. Good. “Yes,” she repeated. “But then, I decided it would be more fun to be able to torture at least one Holmes by not giving him what he wanted.”

He frowned. She’s staying. Fine. Well. “You’re a wise woman, Molly Hooper,” he finally declared.

“Thanks,” she smiled, and started to dig into her food. She frowned when she saw he wasn’t eating, and stopped. “Sherlock, can you please eat? It’s not poisoned, trust me.”

He frowned again, but did as he was asked, as he realized he was actually hungry. Since John wasn’t there for a celebratory dinner, or to bully him into eating, he’d forgotten about it again once the case was solved. Together, they ate quietly, until Toby finished his meal and jumped into Molly’s lap, purring as she stroked him.

Then she broke the silence. “I take it you’re done with the case, since you’re actually eating,” she remarked. “So, who killed the butler?”

Sherlock found himself rattling off the details of the case, and she reacted differently from John, but then, he should have taken into account that she would. “That’s terrible, but at least I’ll have a new body to look at tomorrow,” she said cheerfully.

“What?” he blinked.

“And Darcy’s locked up, I knew she was scary, but I didn’t think she’d be that scary!” she remarked, her cat looking up at her curiously. “Then again, it’s not like I expect society girls to be complete saints, but still!” Then she smiled down at her cat. “No, it’s a good thing the bad girl’s in jail, isn’t it?” she said in a voice reserved for talking to babies, and resumed petting her cat, who didn’t seem to mind being briefly condescended to. She took notice of the time and asked, “Where’s the remote? EastEnders is on.”

Sherlock groaned. Just when he thought there was hope for the woman, she says something like that. “EastEnders? Really?”

She pouted. “Yes. Unless you’d rather watch Dave,” she said in a disapproving voice.

Ooh, probably a good thing that John’s away with Mary. That’s his favorite station, aside from keeping Mrs. Hudson company with her dubious talk shows. He hopes Mary will let John watch that Dave channel, otherwise, their post-honeymoon life will be a bit strained. And then he frowned. Why should it matter if John and Mary are happy or not? “No, go ahead,” he said, waving vaguely.

“Sherlock?” Molly’s voice is closer than he thought, and he looks up to see she’s just a foot away, turning up the cushions on John’s chair. “Where’s the remote?”

“Oh, used it for an experiment,” he said in the same vague tone, thinking about why he would worry, yes, worry, about John and Mary’s happiness all of a sudden.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked, having reclaimed her cat and sitting on John’s chair, not watching TV.

“Mary should let John watch Dave,” he said simply.

Now she blinked. “Did you text Mary?”

“No, why should I?” he said.

It looked like she was smothering a smile unsuccessfully. “It’s helpful information for their marriage,” she said, sounding a bit strangled.

“Just laugh, get it over with,” he said flatly, pulling out his mobile.

She did as she was asked, and she looked ten years younger when she did. The way she lifted up her cat like a toy and giggled in its face didn’t help matters, either. “You’re a good friend,” she smiled at him, then went back to shaking her face at her cat, who didn’t seem all that impressed or amused.

“I am?” he frowned, having hit send.

“Yes,” she said decisively. “You’re a terrible flatmate, but a very good friend.”

He lifted an eyebrow, then texted John the latter, not the former, quoting Molly. After all, sometimes John needed reminding, especially after getting several texts that read “ARE YOU MAD????” “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU THINKING???” and “DID YOU DRUG HER???” The nerve! He’d never drug -- oh, wait, was John still sore about that one time…? Of all the things for John to remember, he’d remember that one small thing! Oh well, he’ll be the bigger man and put John’s happiness above his own, for once.

“And Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“I’m watching Hollyoaks.” And she clicked the TV on, hand on knob, the old-fashioned way.


	13. Chapter 13

As a result of the adrenaline rush of having faced Mycroft Holmes and survived, rediscovering the joy of traumatizing a boy with “Hollyoaks” (Sherlock was silly enough to actually pay attention, as opposed to Billy, who’d been too hungover to do so), and having a nice, uninterrupted soak in the tub, Molly was looking forward to sleeping in on Saturday. The fact that she was sitting up in bed earlier than ten a.m. was making her cross. Then a groan from the floor had her shrieking, clutching the duvet to her chest.

“Shut up, woman, you were the one who hit me!” Sherlock’s voice complained from the floor’s direction.

Hesitantly, she peered over the foot of the bed, to find that, yes, her flatmate was glaring up at her with a swollen jaw. “Oh my,” she said. “Did you try to wake me?”

“Yes,” he said, in a nettled tone, exacerbated by him holding his jaw. “Do you always try to kill people in your sleep? Or do I have a habit of picking flatmates that do?”

“John tried to kill you in his sleep?” she wondered.

“Once or twice,” he shrugged, then winced as he stood up. “He tried to do that when wide awake as well, but was less successful. He’s easier to read when awake, like most people.”

Thoroughly side-tracked now, Molly asked, “How many actual sleepwalking murders have been committed?”

“About sixty-eight, if you believe the literature,” Sherlock said. “Now that you’re awake, can you tell me how long you’ve been able to knock people out should they try to rouse you?”

She shrugged. “Since I was about ten, I guess,” she said. “My younger brother Billy would try to prank me while I was sleeping, and I’d try to stay awake to catch him in the act. After a while, it got so that I’d automatically toss out whoever was near by,” she shrugged again, then frowned. “Why did you wake me up?”

“No reason,” he said, swooping out gracefully like she hadn’t just belted him one, and went downstairs.

She shook her head, then yawned and stretched. Maybe ten more minutes, and she looked sleepily for Toby. “Toby, it’s okay,” she called out, and the cat bounded onto her from her right, the opposite direction of where Sherlock had landed, and she smiled, cuddling the cat to herself.

After her twenty-three minute nap, she woke up and went downstairs to the kitchen for some tea. “Out of scientific curiosity, how fast was my reaction time?” she asked, tea in hand, seeing Sherlock there with a bag of frozen fingers on his face.

“Don’t you know?” he asked, pouting.

She shakes her head. “Nobody was in the mood to answer my questions after I’d knocked them out.”

He gave her a look that sympathized with her previous victims. As if they needed sympathy! “1.5 seconds,” he said, “didn’t even have time to yell at you.”

Interesting, she thought, her sleeping self is better than her awake self at dealing with Sherlock Holmes. How completely unfair. “And how close were you?” she went on, taking another sip.

The corners of his mouth went down further. “About a foot and seven inches away. I’d say your brother unwittingly put you through something like cinematic kung fu training, if one believes the movies John made me watch.”

She’d seen a couple of those movies when she was bored on late-nite telly, although she never watched them to the end, because they got ridiculously more violent as they went on. She had never equated them with herself before, however. “Really? That’s fantastic!”

“No, it’s not,” Sherlock argued sullenly.

“Sorry,” she said, then wondered why she was apologizing. Then she started to calculate the force from the distance, trajectory, and size of his bruise. “Goodness, I seem to have the strength and agility of an athlete twice my size in my sleep!”

He mumbled something, but when she asked him to repeat it, he glared, and said, quite clearly, “I don’t repeat anything.”

Then another thought occurred to her. “Why were you in my room in the first place? It’s obviously not a case, or you’d be out of the flat, swollen jaw or no.” She’d left the door slightly ajar, mostly for Toby’s sake, but trusted Sherlock to stay out. Silly her.

They engaged in a staring contest, which she lost, unfortunately, in spite of being the innocent party here. Still, it warmed her heart to see him open his mouth after a beat. “We’re out of milk,” he said finally.

“I’ve got herbal tea,” she said.

“That’s not real tea,” he said. “And I wanted coffee.”

And now, more than ever, did she sympathize with John’s almost constant and palpable desire to bang his head repeatedly against a hard surface. “Why don’t you go to the store?” she sighed.

He shook his head, and winced again. “None of the groceries in a five-mile radius want me in there.”

 _I don’t want to know why, I really don’t,_ she thought, _how did John not kill him in the first week?_


	14. Chapter 14

In the end, Molly got the milk, but she said it was mostly for Toby’s sake, not his. Sherlock felt a bit put out by this, as he’d seen the cat drink plain water before. “You spoil your cat,” he said, taking the carton from her bag as soon as she reached the top step, and took a large swig.

“Sherloooock!” she wailed.

“What?” he frowned, then licked the corner of his mouth where the milk had spilled.

“That’s for all of us!” she said. “You think I don’t put milk in my tea?”

“I don’t know,” he said, “do you?”

She stared at him, then sighed. Pulling out another carton (he wasn’t stupid, he knew she’d get extra), she also pulled out a marker and labeled it with “MOLLY & TOBY”. “There,” she said, putting it in the fridge. “Now that you’ve seen and observed the label, I hope you actually don’t drink or experiment with this, all right?”

“I find myself promising many things,” Sherlock frowned. “Is it always this difficult to live with a woman?”

She blinked. “How difficult was it to live with John?” she wondered aloud.

“It was dreadful,” he said with a straight face, and turned his face suddenly. To her surprise, he started laughing.

Well, it was a deep chuckle, but it was a wonderful sound, and she found herself joining in, hers more like a nervous titter, but he didn’t seem to care. When they stopped, she shook her head and pulled out a frozen steak from the freezer. “This is supposed to be better than fingers, what with the tenderizer and all,” she said, holding it up to his face.

“Thank you,” he said, then frowned when she looked surprised. “What?”

“You said thank you,” she said.

“Yes, I do say that from time to time,” he said, disgruntled. “Do I not say that to you?”

“Apparently, not in recent memory,” she said, then blinked. “Oh, I’m so sorry!”

He sighed heavily. “Being flatmates would be much easier if you’d stop saying that.”

Her mouth worked open and shut, and he waited for something comprehensible to issue forth. When nothing was forthcoming, he walked into the living room and curled on the couch facing away from the living room, steak on his jaw. After a few moments, he found he was thirsty, and called for tea. There was no answer, and he frowned. “Tea,” he said, louder, and realized he was alone.

 _Where did she go?_ he wondered, and wandered into the kitchen. Her cat was there, so he assumed that she was still in the flat somewhere. The cat started rubbing itself against his legs, and he dully glared at it. “I know you just want to be fed, but I want my tea now, so there,” he said, and, contrary to what John thought, he actually knew how to make a decent pot of tea, he just rarely did so. He put the water boiler on, set the tea tray, and filled the pot when the boiler whistled. He raised his eyes when Mrs. Hudson came in with a container of scones. “Just in time,” he noted, “I was about to have tea.”

He noted his landlady’s raised eyebrows at his tea tray, and narrowed his eyes. Did everyone think he was a complete incompetent in the kitchen? Mummy raised him to make a decent tray, even if he almost never did it these days. There was always someone else, but for once, he didn’t have any distractions to draw him away from his thirst. Then Mrs. Hudson noticed his face. “Oh dear, which big bad man did that?”

“It was an accident,” Molly said, coming into the kitchen wearing what seems to be her at-home uniform of faded pink sweatpants, plaid robe, atrocious thrift-store t-shirt, and hair done into a messy ponytail atop her head. “I’m really not good about being woken up,” she said apologetically.

“Ah,” the elder woman said, and she and Molly shared a look that Sherlock couldn’t decipher. Well, not now. “Look at this, Sherlock made tea!” she said in a delighted voice, in much the same way that parents exclaim over their children doing something basic for the first time.

“Really?” Molly looked around to see that that was indeed the case. “Wow!”

“This will not be a regular occurrence, I can assure you,” Sherlock sniffed, taking out two more cups out of years of training rather than consideration. Then he carried the tray into the living room, only to find the two women still standing in the kitchen, looking at him agape. “Hurry up, the tea’s going to cool faster with the air from your gaping mouths.”

That seemed to get them moving, although Molly snorted and Mrs. Hudson covered her mouth with her hand. Honestly, he has no idea what goes on in women’s heads unless it’s criminal. Being flatmates with one of them was already proving to be a trial.


	15. Chapter 15

Molly wondered at the small crowd gathered in front of 221B Baker Street. There was a strange mix of large men in sunglasses and expensive suits, as well as thin men and women talking rapidly into their mobiles, and finally, some paparazzi taking pictures of her flat. Hm. It’s taken her less than a couple of weeks to think of this as her flat, whereas her previous flat, it took her about a couple of months or so. Perhaps having someone welcoming like Mrs. Hudson helped, as well as having Toby around to make it comfortable. She still thought Sherlock was odd, even abrupt at times, but at least she didn’t have to go gallivanting about London at odd hours of the night like John did. Still, seeing that crowd kept her away, so she spent some time at Speedy’s Café, having a bit of a bite and chatting with Mrs. Turner about John and Mary, before the other woman talked about her own married ones. Molly thought it was cute, how both she and Mrs. Hudson referred to them as “married ones”, while she herself calls them Rupert and William. They are a cute couple, in the way that devoted couples after a number of years and trials are, and Mrs. Turner is telling her a story about William’s latest dance fad when the paparazzi began to scatter, and both Molly and her neighbor are startled when they see a gorgeous, sophisticated woman walk into the crowd.

“Who on earth is that?” Molly breathed. She’d never seen someone like that before, at least, not outside the telly or the magazines.

Mrs. Turner grinned smugly at her. “That’s Irene Adler, American opera star, a real life diva, I believe you’d call her? Had herself mixed up in all kinds of business, affair with a Greek tycoon, broke up the marriage of some kind of European royal, jumping out of airplanes, shooting rifles and such, well, she is an American and all, but still!” The elder woman, looking like a gypsy in her multi-colored scarves and coat, preened in her knowledge.

“You’re into opera, Mrs. Turner?” Molly inquired.

The older woman nodded. “Have been since Mr. Turner wooed me as a young girl. Opera, ballet, symphony, he’d get me tickets to them working as an usher. And that’s how I saw Sherlock Holmes before he was famous. He and Miss Irene had quite the dalliance.”

If Molly had been drinking her lemon squash right then, she would have spat it out. Sherlock had had a girlfriend? After she’d been brutally turned down at the Christmas party, she’d assumed (wrongly so, apparently) that his interest lay elsewhere. “When? Where? No, how?”

The elder woman was about to answer, when the entourage, followed by the paparazzi, swept past the café. To Molly’s astonishment, the opera star came close to the window they were sitting at, and winked at her without breaking her stride towards her limousine. Then Molly looked at Mrs. Turner. “Is she always like that?” she asked, flustered to the point of ignoring the paparazzi futilely chasing after the limo.

The elder woman shrugged. “She’s an American.”

Molly sighed deeply. “Okay, so how on earth was she involved with Sherlock? Or is the other way ‘round?”

“She was on tour about ten years ago,” Mrs. Turner replied, “she knew the royal family, and they had a bit of a party. Sherlock crashed the party, literally, and she ran off with him. They were together for a few days, and she continued her European tour.”

The pathologist frowned. “She was with him for only a few days several years ago, and she turns up now? It must be quite a case if she’s looking him up now.”

There’s an unreadable look in the other woman’s eyes, but it disappears before Molly can categorize it. “Yes, it must be,” her neighbor shrugged.

Molly swallowed the last of her lemon squash. “It’s been lovely catching up, Mrs. Turner,” she said, leaving when she saw the last of the paparazzi were gone. Much as Sherlock enjoyed teasing (or ridiculing) a crowd, she much preferred to talk with people one-on-one. It made her miscommunication a bit more easier to handle, really.


	16. Chapter 16

“So, what kind of case does she have for you?” Sherlock heard Molly’s voice say brightly, coming up the stairs. Her face is as free of manipulation and undertones as Irene’s is full of those same things.

“She didn’t,” he replied sourly. “She heard you’d moved in and wanted me to move out.”

The long-haired girl frowned, confused. “What?”

Oh dear, it was like talking to John again. He sighed, then sat up, staring her in the face. “Miss Adler wishes to renew what little unmemorable acquaintance we had, and that I should move out of 221B and into her penthouse.” He made a face. “I must’ve made quite a fool of myself back then, I would never let someone like that order me about, not even Mycroft can do that.”

The pathologist’s eyebrows rose. “What do you mean, you don’t remember? Was it that terrible being with her?”

Sherlock forces his face to be placid, even though he feels like screwing it up into what John used to call his “evil lemon-sucking face”. “I was on drugs,” he says in as even a tone as possible.

Seeing John’s mild disbelief during that first “drugs bust” is nothing compared to the horrified look Molly now wears. “Drugs? Really?”

He looks away. “Really,” he says flatly.

“Well,” she says after a long pause, “congratulations.” When he turns around, frowning, she adds quickly, “Not for taking them, I mean, for being able to stop. You know. Using them.”

Again, he schools his features. “I had help,” he says between his teeth, the disgust at his weakness seeping out.

“Oh,” she says, a bit startled. “Still--” and she interrupts herself, “oh! Well, it’s good that you don’t want to move, I’d hate to try to find a new flatmate!” And she laughs in a nervous way, like she just realized it.

“I told you,” Sherlock said, now bored, “I’m not moving. There’s no way I’m leaving. Mrs. Hudson is the only landlady who’s been able to tolerate my experiments and hours, I doubt whatever place Adler has in mind will allow me to conduct research on body parts in peace.”

Now that he’s said it, the thought hits his flatmate, and her mouth quirks up into a grin. “God bless Mrs. Hudson,” she says. “And good thing John and Mary will be back in a couple of days, I bet you missed having him on your cases.”

He pouts. “No, I didn’t.”

The grin widens into an uneven smile. “Of course you do, your mouth turns down every time a text isn’t from him. Come on, I’ll make tea, and we can dig up whatever it was you’ve forgotten online. I’m sure there must be tons of pictures of the two of you, you’re both very striking.”

His eyebrows went up. “Do you think so?”

She nods, pulling the tea bags out from the cupboard. “Even if you were on drugs, she’s not the kind of woman you can look away from. I had a hard time looking away from her myself.”

For some reason, that concerned him. “She saw you?”

Molly nodded again, filling the electric kettle. “At Speedy’s. Mrs. Turner told me that you and Miss Adler were an item before, and then Miss Adler came out, saw us in the window, winked, and left in her limo. She’s got quite a crowd.”

The bare-bones story left much to be desired, but at least it wasn’t embellished unnecessarily like John’s. “Yes, she does,” he says, then opens Molly’s laptop and logs in before Toby can walk across the keys. It seems to be something the cat thinks is a game, but it only encourages Sherlock to break into Molly’s account faster. He types in his name and Adler’s, and finds quite a bit of blurry images, as well as stock photos of the woman. A few of the articles have some sharp images, but they’re small, and Sherlock frowns briefly before enlarging them and scanning through the reading material. He blinks when the kettle whistles, and Molly’s pink robe goes past him.

She’s back in her home clothes when she brings out the tea. “So, find anything interesting?” she asks.

He wrinkles his nose. “I’m surprised Mycroft didn’t delete these. I suppose it’s his petty way of trying to make me learn from past mistakes or something equally dull.”

She frowns briefly, then walks over to where he is, nudging her cat a bit so she can see the rest of the monitor, and starts reading. Thankfully, she reads much faster than his previous flatmate, and she looks at him. “You haven’t changed much,” she says.

“What?”

“I mean, aside from the drugs,” she says quickly, almost spilling her tea as she waves her hands, “you seem to go at things rather recklessly. You must have as many lives as a cat or quite the lucky streak.”

He narrows his eyes. “Obviously, I was under the influence then. I wasn’t thinking clearly. And there’s no such thing as luck.”

She laughs, not quite covering up her mouth. “You’re one of the quickest thinkers I know, and you still run headlong into danger,” she smiles. “That hasn’t changed.”

He can feel his nose lift. “Be as that may,” he says, “it sounds like that Adler woman was the root of some of the trouble herself.”

She shook her head, looking at her cat. “I’m sure she was,” she says, “I don’t think you like being bored.”

Obvious, he wants to say, but now he’s thinking about what Adler’s future plans are, even if they are temporary. Why is she here? What does she want with him? Why did she wink at Molly, of all people, and how long does she plan to stay in London? She certainly pitched a fit when Sherlock turned her down, but gave him an address in Belgravia anyways. Adler seemed so confident that Sherlock would go with her, his refusal seemed to confuse her. Granted, even minor celebrities, especially those with a small throng, seem to believe that everything they say goes, and it appears that it’s been quite some time since she’s been refused “even such a small thing”, as she put it. “No, I don’t,” he says aloud, and that’s the last thing he says for quite some time.


	17. Chapter 17

It’s a Saturday before Molly sees Mary and John, and they’re having dinner at the Criterion. “So, how was your honeymoon?” she asks, but it’s obvious from their beaming faces that they enjoyed themselves immensely. “And please, spare me the horrid details.”

“Oh, but that’s the best part!” Mary exclaimed, while her husband groaned. “All right, but don’t blame me if I accidentally praise parts of your anatomy,” and she winked at Molly.

“Jesus, a little privacy please?” John muttered before taking a deeper swig of his beer.

The women laughed, although it was Molly and John who were blushing. “And how’s Sherlock doing?” the blonde woman asked.

Molly shook her head. “I can’t wait for him to be on another case with John,” she says, “sorry.”

Now John’s smiling. “That bad, eh?”

The brunette looks at the wallpaper. “Well, he’s not shooting at the wall, which is a plus, but from time to time, I catch him trying to experiment on Toby.”

The newlyweds look at each other and start laughing, and Molly joins in good-naturedly, but she’s also sighing. “Honestly, it’s worse than babysitting my cousin’s pre-schoolers at times! How did you stand it?” she asks John.

He looks at his wife, then at Molly. “We-ell,” he hedged.

“I mean, not that your texts weren’t helpful and everything,” she adds, forgetting that his first few texts questioned her sanity, “but how did you survive the long term without wanting to poison him?”

“For one, poison’s too slow, for another, he’d definitely figure it out,” John smiled quickly, and she smiled back, “and then, there are days that kind of make up for all that.” Then he thought about it, looked startled, and said, “Not that I’m encouraging you to go running through London with him, I don’t think that’s your thing.”

“No, it’s not,” Molly said. “Right now, it’s not too bad, since we’re still getting used to each other. But later on, when he gets truly bored, I might have to call in the Yard.”

“Or us,” Mary says, glancing at John.

“Definitely us first,” John nods.

She looks at them, then smiles. “All right,” she says. “I’m still a bit surprised Sherlock’s not here, doesn’t he usually eat when he’s not on a case?”

The blonde man makes a face, and it’s then that Molly really notices the graying tips on his short hair. “When he’s off elsewhere doing ‘research’,” and both women can hear the quotation marks, “consider that running experiments outside. And be grateful that it’s not in the flat.”

Molly exhales. “Oh, okay.”

“And Molly?”

“Yes?”

“Good luck.”

She raised her glass of water. “Thank you. And you, too. You know he’ll make you run twice as far your first case back just to get even.”

He groaned again. “Save me, Mary,” he said half-jokingly, throwing his arms around his wife.

“Oh, no,” the blonde woman chortled, but leaned against him, “you can’t pretend you weren’t getting antsy those last couple of days. Run ‘til your feet fall off, just remember to give them a good soak at home.”

They’re so cute, Molly thinks as they continue to tease each other, even if they are older than her. It’s a good thing Sherlock isn’t there, he’d be snide, but they wouldn’t care a bit. In fact, they’d probably be even more cute and cuddly in front of him just to annoy him. And with that cheery thought, she smiled as she dug into her bangers and mash.


	18. Chapter 18

Rather than wasting time with useless chatter, Sherlock had spent the day in the back room of a popular news station. They had raw footage that never made it to air, and the fact that it was ten years old meant nothing because they always had something for celebrities, in case of death. Whether or not the footage was flattering didn’t matter, because the “morgue”, as they called it, meant they had something for still footage, even if it was a few seconds before the man or woman of the hour sneezed, puked or did something equally unflattering.

So he pored through the footage of Irene Adler, formerly of New Jersey, from beginning to present. Some he’d already come across on the net, but a few clips would make the former Sherlock wince. In those, there is a properly-wasted, immature youth, not in control of his expressions or body, being dragged about by the obviously in-control diva, before she had a proper retinue about her. It bothered him that she only knew this part of his life, the part that he largely deleted either willfully or no, and that she expected him to behave the same way. Surely she’d have known that his life was different from John’s blogs, right? Or did she really not care enough to do the research one normally does for a prospective mate?

He wrinkled his nose at the phrase. She was difficult, and she shouldn’t be. Her lower-class background and meteoric rise above showed a strength of will and ambition, her appearance displayed acceptable genetics and superior knowledge of feminine seduction, and her need for control in out-of-control situations spoke more of her broken childhood than she ever would. People like her, they would move ever upward and onward, with the occasional scandals, but never looking back. She’s had more than her fair share of lovers, so why would she bother with him now?

He returned to Baker Street while Molly was out, changed his clothes, applied a couple of patches to his arm, and lay down on the sofa. His eyes were still closed when his mobile rang, and he ignored it. He continued to ignore it when it rang three more times, as he ignored the door opening and deliberately light footsteps trod on the stairs. “What is it now?” he drawled in a bored tone, his eyes still closed.

Mycroft sighed. “Why must you resort to making everything unpleasant?”

“You bring out the best in me,” Sherlock retorted. “It isn’t a case. What is it?”

“Your upcoming nuptials,” his older brother said stiffly.

Sherlock frowned, then opened his eyes to look at Mycroft, standing next to John’s chair, his ever-present umbrella in hand. “I don’t have any.”

“Yes, you do,” Mycroft said. “Mummy has arranged it.”

Now Sherlock stared at him in horror. “What? Why?”

Mycroft looks at him like he should know better. “You’ve been wondering as to Miss Irene Adler’s motivations, correct? That is why.”

For the first time in a long time, Sherlock felt his stomach improbably drop. “You’re not joking.”

“No.”

“I’m not marrying her.”

“Oh?” Mycroft’s eyebrows raise, his expression amused. “You don’t have a choice, Sherlock.”

“Yes, I do,” Sherlock said, pulling out his mobile. “I’ll just talk to Mummy and get this straightened out.”

“You do that,” his older brother smirked, making his cheeks seem puffier than normal. He walked out, umbrella in hand, as the number rang out.

The conversation was only seven minutes long, but it was all that it took for Sherlock to be sufficiently beaten. “Yes, Mummy,” is his last words before she hangs up on him. He closed his eyes. It was all John’s fault.

She’d given up on Mycroft, especially after what happened several years ago with his fiancée kidnapped and shot because of his “minor position” in the British government, to hold any high hopes for a lasting relationship. She’d never really expected anything from Sherlock, until John Watson became his flatmate, and later, partner and friend. He’d heard her murmuring about the two of them, but Mycroft thankfully closed down that avenue, saying it wasn’t John’s inclination. Still, when John got married, that sparked something in her mind that Sherlock shouldn’t be alone or some silliness of the sort. So Mummy had arranged for a suitably “exciting” young woman, one he was vaguely familiar with, to be his wife. He was to meet with Irene Adler tomorrow, and in a month, so that suitable arrangements could be finalized, they were to be married. That was that.

He was doomed, no matter which way he looked at it.


	19. Chapter 19

“Molly Hooper, marry me.” 

That’s definitely at the top of things Molly doesn’t expect to hear when she returned to the flat. “I’m sorry, what?” she stares at him. Then she looks around. “Did you do something to Toby?”

He glared at her. “No, I did not. Well?”

“Well, what?” She blinked. “Oh, you were serious.”

“Yes, I was serious!” he made a face, pulling his legs up so his feet were on the edge of the seat, his long arms wrapped around his legs. She isn’t sure how such a tall man manages to fold himself up like that on a normal chair, but there you have it.

She frowned, then sat down in the chair opposite him. This sounds like a conversation she shouldn’t be having standing up, for fear of falling over or wanting to strangle him. “Why are you asking me to marry you? We haven’t dated, you obviously don’t love me, and I’m not secretly rich enough to pay for the equipment you keep stealing--”

“Thanks to John getting married,” his face twists, “Mummy thinks I’m now human and civilized enough to follow suit, so she’s arranged for me to wed Irene Adler because she thinks we have ‘a past’,” and his hands mark exaggerated quotation marks for effect, “and that Adler should be exciting enough for me to live with. We’re to meet tomorrow, have a nice chat, and be wed within a month.” He sighed, then added, completely deadpan, “It’s excellent on paper.”

“I’m guessing that’s your mum’s words, not yours,” Molly grinned. Her expression wasn’t because she’d figured that out, but because Toby decided to join her on the chair. Nothing beats a good dinner out with friends, except coming home to a welcoming cat. Sudden and unwelcome declarations of marriage from her bizarre flatmate definitely doesn’t count. “So, um, do you want me to save you from a real relationship with a false one?”

He glared at her again. “It’s not even a real one to begin with. I haven’t spent more than half an hour with her sober, and now that I know her motivations for being with me, she sounds even more boring.”

“What’s in it for her, then?” Molly said, stroking her multi-colored tabby.

“What do you mean?” he frowned.

“I mean, why’s she going along with your mum’s plans? Seems to me a woman like her could settle down with anyone she wants, not that you’re all that bad or anything,” she hurriedly added the last bit.

In spite of acting like he was above it all, Sherlock did have some pride to be wounded, and it looked like she accidentally wounded the very thing. “What’s in it for her, as you so crassly put it,” he said, “is quite the allowance to keep her living to her accustomed lifestyle for the rest of her days.”

Molly frowned back, confused. “But you’re not rich.”

He rolled his pale eyes. “Of course not,” he said, looking at her cat, “Mummy is. And Mycroft, to a degree.” He saw her gaze skittering away, and huffed. “And please don’t suggest that she might really be in love with me, you might as well say she’d be in love with a mannequin.”

She sputtered. He says he’s not able to read minds, but he comes uncomfortably close at times. “All right, so maybe she’s not. But you will meet with her tomorrow, won’t you?”

He looked mulish. “Why should I?”

“To see if she’s actually the scheming woman you think she is. Or she could pleasantly surprise you, and your mum may be right.” She laughed when his expression turned even more sour. Just to tease him, she said, “Who knows, you might even enjoy yourself, pretending to be charming while figuring out her game.”

Sherlock lifted his chin. “I’m always charming.” And, as if to disprove that very statement, he adds, “Tea, Molly.”

Ugh. She’s got a comfy lap full of cat, and she knows he can perfectly bloody well make a pot of tea himself. She glared at him, but of course, it’s like glaring at Toby, there’s no effect whatsoever. “Fine,” she huffed, regretfully dislodging her soft kitty, and goes into the kitchen.

As she’s pouring the water into the kettle, he says in a carrying voice, “I don’t understand why you’re making tea, but not marrying me.”

She wants to hit her head against the counter. Does he honestly not know--! She sighed, then called out, “Not the same thing!” And busies herself with the routine of making tea, to calm herself down so she won’t attempt to poison him.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In case you were wondering, I've published this previously on fanfic.net, hence the glut of chapters (no, I never write fic this fast!). Also, I didn't watch S3, so if it looks like things don't quite make sense (more than the altered timelines & silly plot indicates), that's why. Though if I had seen Anderson's theory, it would've been even sillier ;D

Sherlock finds the Irene Adler in front of him to be rather amusing, charming, witty, sophisticated, and flirty. The previous one he met was crass, demanding, imperious, and belligerent when the other party was uncooperative with her demands. The Irene Adler sitting before him in this five-star restaurant is tastefully and expensively dressed, her makeup expertly applied, her hair done not two hours ago, and she is sharing anecdotes about their past. The one he met the other day in his flat was all but falling out of her custom-made bustier and long, slitted skirt, her bold hair and makeup less like a former opera star and more like, well, the villain of a Disney movie, from what he can remember.

It’s obvious someone’s been coaching her into this performance, and performance it is, well-practiced though it may be. She hits the right notes during her stories, prompting him to laugh or pretend to deny certain parts, although normally, he would have walked out half an hour ago. She knows how to maneuver the conversation skillfully, allowing for no awkward pauses, just enough for them to catch a breath, sip their wine, and continue “getting to know each other.”

But that’s not what this is. For her, it’s the familiar game of showing her new date how attractive she is, how good she’ll be with him, how easy it will be to fall into a relationship with her. She’s long ago perfected the art of editing herself, subsuming and altering her personality and image to fit whatever mold she believes the other man (or woman) desires. They talk about the arts and what Sherlock might be interested in, and move onto other topics closer to Sherlock’s forte. When she admits, “I’m not as familiar with the sciences as I ought to be,” she smiles winningly when she adds, “but you more than make up for my lack of knowledge.”

Before he can drop his own pleasant persona to expound on how idiotic that is, dinner is served. He’s enough of a gentleman to allow the conversation to be suspended while they eat, or rather, while they both pick at their meals, she to maintain her slender appearance, and he, because he honestly doesn’t feel like eating. He takes in enough to keep the wine from affecting his judgment, however, and they have their dinner in a sort of peace.

The peace, unfortunately, is broken when she remarks, “I’m so glad you decided to come. Your brother was wrong about you, he insisted you’d show up in something horrible, behave atrociously, and verbally tear me to shreds. No, you’ve been the perfect gentleman, so amiable and pleasant, and rather handsome no matter what you wear,” and her eyes flicker down briefly to his open collar, the shirt, for once, fitted and not straining against his chest. “But I’m sure you’ve heard that before.”

“I’m sure,” he responds a bit vacantly, putting the broccoli sprout into his mouth, because he might as well eat something healthy.

Her smile deepens approximately three millimeters. “Sherlock, I think we could make this work,” she said, reaching over and putting a slender hand on his. “Don’t you think so?”

His hand slips over hers, resting on the pulse point in her wrist. As he mentally counts the beats, he looks into her eyes. The lighting’s dim, but her pupils are only slightly dilated to account for that. Then he looks down at their hands and smiles. “No, I don’t,” he says.

“What?” She looks startled.

“I said,” he repeated more clearly, but in the same even tone, “no, I don’t. This whole evening we’ve been shamming each other, and while you may be accomplished in making that a long-term performance, I, on the other hand, am not. You’re quite good, Ms. Adler, but you’re not good enough to make me leave my spouse.”

She stared, her hand falling from his. “But you’re not married.” Her eyes dart over to his left hand, which is, and has always been, bare.

His smile is bright and fierce, and she frowns a little, confused. “Oh, but I am, yes, quite devoted, I must say. Tell my mother that I appreciate her efforts, but you’re better off with someone like, oh, Godfrey Norton than myself.” Her shocked expression told him his time in the news morgue paid off. Norton, working name George Nicholson, was a handsome enough model, but was currently pursuing becoming a barrister, which would take time and money. Sherlock saw them sharing the same space in more recent photos, and she brought up his name quite often during tonight’s conversations about the legal system. There was no way Adler could support him and her lifestyle on her own, but if she could attach herself to a wealthy family… “Please give him my regards. Good evening, Miss Adler.”

He stood up, bowed briefly and a bit ironically, then grabbed his coat from the coat check before walking out of there, texting Lestrade as he did so.


	21. Chapter 21

Molly didn’t see Sherlock for three days, but she did get calls from Mary every so often, updating her on John’s, and therefore Sherlock’s, whereabouts. Molly smiled. It was nice to have another woman in the circle, she smiled to herself. Then she got a rather curious text from Sherlock. She frowned because it said, “Wear the ring on the next corpse.”

“Why?”

She could almost hear his gusty sigh when the next text came through. “You’ll need it.”

She shook her head. Why she would need a ring from a corpse? But she thought it had something to do with his current case, so when the next body came in, she looked for a ring and found one, a simple platinum one on the woman’s ring finger. After cleaning it off, she put it on her own finger rather than in an evidence bag. She knows she shouldn’t be surprised that it fits, but it does. She then proceeded with the autopsy, and then with another, and another, and another.

When she comes home, she isn’t surprised to find Sherlock sprawled all over the sofa. She is surprised, however, to find John similarly sprawled over one of the chairs. “Are you all right?” she asked, rushing over the last couple of steps and nearly tripping as she did so.

“We’re fine, please watch that next-to-the-last step,” Sherlock drawled, his eyes still closed.

Molly couldn’t help it, she looked back to find that, yes, it was just a tiny bit crooked from the rest, but she wouldn’t have known it if she hadn’t almost tripped on it. She swung back to the boys in the living room. “Do you need, I don’t know, ice or something?”

“We had a couple paracetamol and have some Icy Hot patches, we’ll be fine,” John groaned, not looking up. “In a few hours, at least.”

She shook her head, then called Mary, who promised to bring over some bath salts. Then she proceeded to make tea, because that’s all she can do, short of smothering them to put them out of their misery. She supposed this is the part of John’s write-ups that he doesn’t put online: the recovery after a case. “Does this always happen, this painful groaning thing?”

“Not always,” Sherlock muttered. “I take my tea with two sugars.”

John chuckled, then winced. “Thought you were cutting back.”

“Yes, well, if I were in less pain, I might,” the younger man snapped.

Molly unsuccessfully smothered a smile. “How do you want yours, John?”

“Bit of cream, one sugar,” he said, “thanks.”

“Would you like some sports drinks? That should help a bit,” she called out as she went back into the kitchen.

John frowned a little as he creakily moved his head towards the kitchen. “When did you have sports drinks?”

“I don’t, Molly does,” Sherlock answered, “something about electrolytes, but won’t let me experiment with them.”

Now John’s head snapped towards his friend. “You actually like drinking that stuff, don’t you? No fingers in the bottles, nothing like that, I bet,” he pouted.

“What murderer would leave fingers in a sports drink?” Sherlock asked when Molly came back out with the chilled plastic bottles.

John wrinkled his face. “Who would leave fingers in the teapot?”

“You weren’t using it,” Sherlock said in his high-handed fashion, “while the bottles were full.”

Rather than deal with Sherlock’s syllogism, John turned to Molly, smiling in thanks. “Molly, you must tell me how you manage to keep Sherlock out of the drinks.” And he took an appreciative gulp of said sports drink.

She smiled. “I have a cat who guards the food.”

“A cat!” John exclaimed. “So that’s why Sherlock didn’t want us to have a dog, it would’ve kept him away from experimenting with the food!”

Sherlock glared at them both when they started laughing. “I don’t see what’s so amusing,” he said in as chilling a voice as he could manage while lying prone in pain and drinking a colorful, sugary drink.

Molly smiled briefly as the kettle whistled and went back to the kitchen pour herself the first cup of tea. It wasn’t as bad as when Billy would come home wasted after a night of partying, but it was a strange mix of surprise and amusement seeing two grown men behave like children after a hard day of play. She did laugh when the first thing Mary did was take their picture, then start cooing over John’s injuries, before having to do the same for Sherlock because he felt left out, although he wouldn’t say so out loud.


	22. Chapter 22

Two mornings later, when his body had recovered and his family’s texts were getting boring, Sherlock decided to let Molly in on the plan, since she would, after all, be in the line of fire. And according to John, people hate being left out of the loop, especially since the ones in the line of fire. “Molly,” he said.

She squeaked, jumping a bit as she nearly dropped her coffee. “Oh, God,” she put a hand to her chest, turning around, “don’t do that.”

He decided not to dignify that with a response, but sniffed. She made a strong pot of coffee, she must be having a long shift today. Good, Adler will be making her move soon, then. “I need to tell you something,” he said.

“All right,” she blinked.

“I need you to keep wearing the ring,” he said.

“Oh yes, I meant to ask you about that. So it’s not for the case, then?” she asked.

He shook his head minutely. “I was unable to persuade Mummy and the Adler that I wasn’t interested in marriage, as I was already engaged. So I need you to be the face for my work.”

She frowned, blinked, then took a sip of coffee. “Sherlock?”

“Yes.”

“Are you, I mean, your mum seems like an interesting woman.”

“Does that mean you’ll pretend to be engaged to me?”

“What?” she gaped. Then she groaned. “Sherlock, it’s too early in the morning to be joking.”

“I’m not joking,” he frowned slightly. “I need you.”

She took a large gulp of coffee, as if that would help clear her head. Sherlock could tell her exactly how fast caffeine would affect her system, but he thinks that wouldn’t help his cause at this point to distract her with extraneous facts. “What’s so bad about Irene? You told me she was charming enough. And she’d leave you alone to do your work while she,” she waves her hand in the air.

“That’s not the point,” Sherlock said, “the point is she’s on Mummy’s and Mycroft’s side, so she can’t possibly be any good. And before you suggest it, I can’t get anyone else. There are too many people who’d be easily bought or bribed to their side.” He frowned. “Loyalty is in short supply these days.”

“Loyalty or unquestioning obedience?” Molly murmured, then gesticulated wildly as if that would clear the air of her words. “No, never mind. Forget that. I need to go to work.”

She dumped her empty cup into the sink, and was about to head out when he grabbed her wrist and pulled her to him. “Please. Will you do this for me?” he asked, surprised that he managed not to dislocate her arm from her socket.

For some reason, her breathing and heart rate increased, but she nodded. “Yes. But only until you find somebody else,” she said, her dark eyes wide.

He frowned. “There isn’t anyone else.” He held up his left hand, similarly adorned with a simple platinum ring. “You and John are the only two who have stood up to Mycroft, and John’s married.”

She ducked her head and smiled. “And you’re married to your work,” she said. “But I need to get to my work.”

He let her go. “Be careful,” he said solemnly.

She smiled, a little confused, then left.


	23. Chapter 23

Molly is rather surprised with herself. She never thought she’d get caught up with Sherlock’s mad world, aside from autopsying the bodies he comes across for his cases. And now it seems she’s pretending to be his fiancée, to prevent a gorgeous woman to actually be his fiancée. His world really, really doesn’t make sense sometimes, and it seems his mum is as mad as he is. And again, she’s thankful that her family isn’t as rich or powerful, since her own mum’s quite mad as it is, money would make her as bad as Sherlock’s.

But she put that to the side, as she had the unfortunate task of dealing with a small group of school children in a bus accident. Most survived, but the ones in the morgue did not, and she knew she’d have to deal with their parents once she was done. She’d rather deal with the dead than the living, but her job wasn’t always about what she wanted, but what was needed. Her mouth twitched unaccountably. Sherlock said he needed her, even though he honestly could have gotten anyone else to follow in his footsteps. She honestly didn’t think there were that many people who would say no to him, at least, in this case. Were there really that many people who would accept money to betray a friend? And she did regard him as a friend, albeit a slightly mad and highly intelligent one.

When she finished with the last child’s body, she buzzed the front office. “It’s Molly Hooper,” she said, “you may notify the parents that we’re ready down here.”

The door swing open, but it’s not a grieving parent, it’s Irene Adler. “What, what are you doing here?” Molly stuttered.

“Asking you to stop the charade,” the taller woman said. No, wait, she’s taller because of those impossibly high heels, otherwise they’d be close to the same height. “Sherlock isn’t in love with anyone, least of all you.”

 _Oh, so this is what he meant,_ Molly groaned inwardly, _thanks for the warning._ Aloud, she says, “You’re right. He isn’t in love. But he is passionately devoted.” She’s not lying, because he’s as relentless towards finding the answers as any parent who’s lost their child, or any woman who’s been spurned. His personality and intellect may inform his behavior, but it all goes towards his work, without which he drives everyone else mad trying to make up for the lack thereof. His work is a fickle mistress, but one he is devoted to, for his temporary sanity.

The rather gorgeous woman (yes, she can admit that quite readily) before her scoffs. “Devoted? To you?”

Of course not, Molly almost says before reminding herself that she’s the face of his work, that he asked her and nobody else for this rather huge favor. “Yes,” she says simply.

“I don’t believe it,” Irene Adler says flatly, and Molly has to admit, were she seeing this from someone else’s view, that it is hard to believe. “I have everything he would want. What would he want from you?”

Hearing that, in such a matter-of-fact tone, from a woman who probably never had a bad month of acne in her life, almost made Molly cringe. “But you have nothing he needs,” she says softly, remembering that morning’s conversation.

Irene frowns. “Are you saying that mousy little you,” and she leans into Molly’s space, much as Sherlock does, “can satisfy a man like Sherlock Holmes? From what I remember, he is rather insatiable.”

Molly blushed. She really, really didn’t to think about that right now. Or ever. Especially not when she’s sharing a flat with said insatiable, no, intelligent man. “He’s never bored,” she said, surprised when the words leave her lips that that is true.

The other woman doesn’t bother to hide her surprise. “Really? How on earth do you manage that?” Her fingers go through Molly’s hair, flat from her usual routine of brushing, shampooing, and blow-drying, as opposed to her own exquisitely coiffed hairdo.

Molly tries for a casual shrug, but it comes out as a semi-violent twitch. She isn’t good at playing these kinds of games, so she stops. “Just being me, I guess,” she says. Which is true, if she’s pretending to be Sherlock’s work. His work is his work, and that’s primarily what brings him joy.

Irene snorts. “Please. This isn’t some sappy movie, nobody would stay with each other if they didn’t have some kind of edge, some kind of angle.” She gives Molly a snide look. “Or if one is a little more naïve than the other.”

“Well, Sherlock’s not what you would call the perfect man,” Molly’s mouth twitches upward. “But I’m not perfect, either. We have good and bad days, but we’re there for each other. He likes that, I guess.”

“And you? What do you like? You like having a cold, calculating, arrogant man in your bed?” Irene said, her words very pointed, even as her tone is soft, seductive, almost.

Molly blushed, remembering that morning when he’d stayed in her bed in nothing but her blanket covering him, and later, just her bedsheet as he walked around the flat. “He’s not always cold,” she said, remembering the warmth he gave off when he pressed against her.

“You obviously haven’t slept together,” Irene smiled slowly, her hand dropping to Molly’s arm. “He’s a veritable refrigerator and takes all the blankets, leaving you to freeze, with or without touching him.” Her smile was small but triumphant. “He may be the master at detective work, but love? That’s my game. And you, Molly Hooper, should get out while you can. You’re in over your head.”

For some reason, that flipped on the stubborn switch in Molly. The pathologist straightened her shoulders and stared hard at Irene Adler, looking at her as she would a corpse, determining what’s important and what’s not. “Maybe,” she admitted, “but I’m the one in his head, not you. Others may want you, but Sherlock needs me.”

Irene raised her sculpted eyebrows. “Oh, the mouse has a bite. This is going to be rather fun, I think.” She leaned over and kissed Molly on the cheek. “I look forward to our next meeting, Miss Hooper.” And she sauntered out of the morgue, as if cameras were on her.

Once the doors swung shut, Molly sighed and leaned against the counter. Honestly, Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes deserved each other. Why can’t he see that?

And then she hurriedly checked her face and wiped off the lipstick before the first of the parents came in.


	24. Chapter 24

“That was well done,” Sherlock said when he stepped into the morgue after the last of the parents came out.

“Sherlock!” Molly whirled on him. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

He frowned slightly. “I did.”

She frowned, shaking her head. “No, ‘be careful’ isn’t the same thing as ‘Irene Adler’s going to find you and grill you at your workplace, Molly’.”

“Did I have to be that specific? I thought it was understood after our conversation.” He was sure the implications were clear, but apparently not. Social cues and rules left much to be desired, even though his flatmates insisted on pretending it worked.

Then a thought occurred to her. It was painfully obvious to see the light dawn in her eyes, but at least it came. “And how did you know how it went?”

“Because you would have left the bereaved parents even more shocked than they came in if it had gone badly, you really shouldn’t let your emotions affect your work, you had enough presence of mind to wipe her lipstick off your cheek, and you are looking me straight in the eyes as we speak,” he said, “obvious.”

She sighed. “She acts like you when you’re on a case, single-minded, ready to do anything to get what you need, and altogether too skilled at what you do. I’m surprised you don’t get along better with her.”

He bristled. “I am nothing like her.”

Her mouth twitched up, and he sighed. “Seriously, Sherlock, the fact that you’re going to such lengths is only making this situation sillier than it is. Can’t you just--?”

“Just what? Give in? Go along with Mummy’s insane plan? I am, just in my own way.”

“But you don’t want to marry Irene,” Molly stated.

He rolled his eyes. “Of course not.”

“Will you go so far as to marry me to keep from marrying Irene?”

“If I have to, yes.”

She blinked. “As far as proposals go, that was the least romantic one I’ve heard.”

He frowned slightly. “Have you been proposed to before?” Nothing in her demeanor would suggest anything of the sort.

She looked hurt. “Of course.”

Of course? He stared harder at her, then leaned in. Hm. Nobody from college, either someone from her hometown or a former coworker, someone who’s definitely gone on to marry someone else so she didn’t have to worry about them now. A certain set of footsteps caught his attention away from his deductions, and he grabbed her shoulders. “Kiss me.”

“What?” she stared at him, shocked.

He sighed noisily, a bit disappointed in her slowness, before tilting his head and putting his lips on hers.


	25. Chapter 25

As far as kisses went, it was rather strange. For one, Molly’s eyes were still open, as he’d gone in for the gesture as simply as he would take your last dumpling. For another, it was Sherlock kissing her, like he meant it. She tried to ask, What are you doing, but at this point, it was rather obvious.

“You can stop your little performance, little brother,” Mycroft Holmes’ voice floated through the room.

“Oh my God!” Molly gasped, pushing Sherlock away, to his older brother’s amusement. She couldn’t hide the blush on her face, so she turned away, as if that would work. _Why is Mycroft in the morgue?_ she wondered. Seriously, was there some kind of “Harass Molly at Work Day” going on?

“What now?” Sherlock said to Mycroft, his tone utterly bored and his face disdainful. Was this the same man who kissed her so passionately just a couple of seconds ago?

“Miss Adler is rather displeased with you, and as a result, so is Mummy,” his older brother said, somehow managing to look down his long nose at the both of them, even though they weren’t standing that close any more. “I don’t know why you have to make everything so hard for yourself, Sherlock, surely you know we want what’s best for you.”

“What you want is to meddle in everyone’s business, and what I want is for you to leave,” Sherlock stared emotionlessly at him.

“Surely you don’t expect me to believe that you and Miss Hooper are actually an item, now, do you?” Mycroft sneered in his upper-class way. “Flatmates, yes, with very little boundaries, apparently, but _engaged?_ No.”

Sherlock smiled thinly. “Believe what you like,” he said.

“I believe you are toying with both Miss Adler and Miss Hooper’s affections,” Mycroft said sternly. “A gentleman would do no such thing.”

“I never said I was a gentleman,” Sherlock snapped, “and how could I toy with Adler’s affections when she has none to give me?”

“And Miss Hooper?”

“She knows exactly where she stands with me.”

“She pushed you away. I highly doubt it,” Mycroft smiled the same empty smile Sherlock did.

“Unlike myself, she’s modest,” Sherlock stated, and Molly blushed again.

“Modesty is one thing, flaunting a platinum ring like that is another,” Mycroft said, “and how did you acquire them so quickly?”

“Ask your lowest lackey to dig that up,” Sherlock shrugged, “or you can stop wasting the government’s time and do something useful, like, I don’t know, fix the rail system or something?”

“We’re trying to keep you from destroying your future,” Mycroft said sternly.

Molly stared as the brothers went at each other, but at that last bit, she had to speak up. “I’m right here, you know,” she said, her voice shaky, “and why would being with me destroy Sherlock’s future? I’m not that bad, am I?”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows slightly, the only sign that her speaking up was a surprise. “On the contrary, Miss Hooper, you’re too good for my brother. You need someone who has a stable income, a stable lifestyle, someone,” his face twitched ever so slightly, “nice.”

“What if I don’t want that?” she cried. “Why doesn’t anyone ask me what I want?”

“What do you want?” Sherlock asked, his tone suspiciously even.

She turned to look at him, and while his face looked as impassive as ever, his eyes looked a little, well, distant. As if he was already trying to cut himself off from her. Why would he do that, when he was already out of her reach? Fine, then. “If none of you are willing to be the adult here, then I want to speak to your mother,” she said, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

Now Sherlock looked alarmed. “No, Molly!” he said, throwing a hand out towards her.

“Oh, it should be fine,” Mycroft said, pulling out his mobile. “Mummy would love to see her.”

“Molly,” Sherlock said urgently.

“It’s fine,” she told him, even though her tone went up worryingly. “She’s your mother, and she loves you. It should be all right.” Why was she reassuring him, she thought, when she should be turning tail and running away from this whole insanity like any sane woman would?

Before she could do just that, Mycroft finished his brief conversation. “Mummy will see you tomorrow afternoon for tea,” he announced. No, not just saying, he announced it, like a PM would a national declaration. Lovely.

“But I have work tomorrow!” Molly cried.

“It’ll be taken care of,” he replied blithely, pulling out his mobile again and murmuring in hushed tones.

She stared at him, then looked at Sherlock. “Can he do that?”

He glanced sourly at Mycroft before returning her gaze. “Apparently, yes.”

She was so, so very doomed.


	26. Chapter 26

Sherlock wanted to accompany Molly to the interview, since, by the lack of her composure when she returned home, she felt even less up to the task than she had been when she faced Mycroft. “Well, you wanted to meet her,” he said sternly, to cover up the inexplicable nervousness he suddenly felt. He knew Molly could be surprisingly resourceful, but even John hadn’t met his mother, and he and John have been through so many trials together. Asking a girl like Molly to meet his mother was akin to asking a novice page to slay a dragon – it wasn’t entirely impossible, but it was very, very improbable, indeed.

But Lestrade had a very interesting case, and John said he was free for the day, so he took it upon himself to go through her wardrobe and select the best battle outfit he could find. Unfortunately, he came across her underthings drawer first, underlined by the pillow she accurately tossed at his head. “What do you think you’re doing?” she yelled, drawing up the blanket to her chin.

“You’re not naked under there, you wear the same thing you do every night you come home, and I was only trying to find the best clothes for you to wear when you meet my mother,” he said dourly. The pillow may be soft, but it was dense, and the force of it threw his head against the corner of her wooden drawer set.

“Oh,” she said, looking a little apologetic. But then she squeaked, “But that’s not the right drawer!”

“So it seems,” Sherlock said, rubbing his forehead before closing said drawer shut. He wasn’t sure why she would be embarrassed by her underthings. They were all practical, machine-washable, and on the inexpensive end, didn’t differ significantly from other women’s, and seemed appropriate for her size. Perhaps it was one of those “modesty” things people kept going on about. “Is the closet more appropriate, then?”

“Um, I guess,” she said, still hiding under her blanket.

He opened it, then sighed gustily. She really did wear everything she owned, he made a face, from the plain slacks to the buttoned-up blouses, to the occasional dress or skirt that she wore for dinner out with friends… He wondered what happened to the dress she wore to that one Christmas party. It wasn’t entirely appropriate for tea with his mother, but it was different from all the rest of her wardrobe. Odd. Still, he had to make the best of what she had, so he started pulling out blouse after blouse, and skirt after skirt. “Here,” he said, finally holding up a long brown skirt with a pink top and a white sweater covered in cherries. “This suits you.”

“Really?” her eyebrows went up.

He rolled his eyes, then pulled out a pair of flat shoes. It wasn’t her usual loafers, but it was still comfortable enough for what work she’d be doing before she left. “And these. And put your hair in that low ponytail, you know, by your ear,” he pointed to his right ear, “it suits you best.”

She blinked. “Oh, all right.”

Good. His job done, he went downstairs and picked up his violin. He had some time before John arrived, and he started to play a relaxing melody by Bach. He kept playing when he heard the footsteps, only turning around when the applause began.

“That’s lovely,” John said, smiling a little. “Ready to go?”

“Not yet,” Sherlock said, “I need to see to something.”

John sighed, but it wasn’t an experiment. “Are you done yet?” Sherlock called up.

“Just a minute!” Molly’s voice came down.

The shorter man smirked. “What, she’s going to a date or something?”

“No, she’s going to meet my mother for tea,” Sherlock replied tersely.

“What? Why?” John frowned.

“She thinks she can talk my mother out of my engagement,” he twisted his mouth. It was a noble thought, but nobody could outwit or outtalk his mother, not even Mycroft.

“Your, wait, when, no, who are you engaged to?” John frowned, suddenly noticing the ring on his finger. _Finally,_ Sherlock thought. He was a little hurt the man didn’t notice earlier.

“Me,” Molly said, coming down the stairs. She looked very much herself, which was the point, and yet, not unattractive. “And I’m going to ask Mrs. Holmes to call off his marriage to Irene Adler.”

“What?” John stared at her, then at Sherlock. “What’s going on?”

“I’ll explain to you in the cab,” Sherlock said, “we’ve got a murder-suicide, or so it seems. Molly, Mummy likes two sugars in her tea, and don’t give her any less, even if she insists. Be careful.”

“You, too,” Molly smiled, “and try not to run too far.”

He made a face, but John laughed. “I’ll make sure we don’t,” he said, “Mary wasn’t too happy with me the other day.”

Sherlock frowned. “Why wasn’t she? You were alive and in one piece, as the saying goes, correct?”

John was about to answer, when he seemed to remember Molly standing there and grinned. She blushed when he said, “I’ll tell you in the cab. Molly, I don’t know what she’s like, but if she’s anything like her son, good luck.”

“Shut up,” Sherlock glared.

John blinked. “Um, Sherlock? That’s the part where you’re supposed to kiss your fiancée good luck.”

“Oh,” he blinked back, and he dutifully kissed her on the cheek. “Good luck.”

“Thank, thank you,” Molly said, her face flaming. Then she ran downstairs, ducking her face as she did. Strange girl.

Then John turned to him, his face serious. “Why’s your mum hooking you up with a black widow, and why are you engaged to Molly?”

Sherlock sighed, then took a deep breath. Might as well tell him in two minutes rather than twenty, and explained the whole mess from the top of the steps to the edge of the curb, where they caught the cab. “So, what did you mean when you said Mary wasn’t happy with you?”


	27. Chapter 27

Molly thought she was a ball of nerves yesterday, but then, she remembered she wasn’t really prepared for the sudden wave after wave of odd people coming into the morgue. Today, however, she had deliberately invited herself over to tea with Sherlock’s mother. Insane.

So when she stepped outside, she wasn’t surprised to see the black limousine. It was just her and a very untalkative driver, who took her to a tasteful yet expensive estate. She’d walked through one of these types of houses once with her mum, as it was open to the public for a fee. She knew without asking that this place had never been, nor ever would be, open to the public. She followed Mr. Burke to a lovely drawing room (she didn’t know what else to call it), and sat down where she was directed, across a woman who looked more like Mycroft than Sherlock. She would have been considered charming in her time, perhaps even cute, her curly red hair now faded to a grayish strawberry blonde, and her figure, once even more shapely than Marilyn Monroe’s, is now held together in a fitted charcoal suit, the jewelry and posture suited to her wealthy dowager status.

But as soon as she served the tea (two sugars, even though Mrs. Holmes asked for one), the elder woman lit into her like Sherlock did. No, Sherlock rarely let his emotions dictate what his words were, whereas Mrs. Holmes seemed to have the blackest of vendettas against her, so her words, even more than Irene Adler’s, cut and stung about as badly as her own mother’s. As Molly sat there, struggling to keep the tears from stinging her eyes, Mrs. Holmes sat back and sipped at her tea like a well-bred woman would. It really was like facing a dragon, as Sherlock had implied at one point. She just hoped she could get through this trial only lightly singed. “Well, it appears you do have some spirit in you, as my eldest says,” Mrs. Holmes tilted her chin up, the better to look down at Molly, even though they were both sitting down. “Tell me, why do you think you can change my mind when not even Sherlock could?”

She took a breath to steady herself. “Because you say you want what’s best for him,” Molly answered, then carefully sipped at her tea.

“And you presume to know what’s best for him?”

“No, only he knows that. And so far, leaving him alone to his work makes him happy. If he wants to change his life, he will. He already did so from drugs to detective work, don’t you think that’s amazing?” Molly asked earnestly.

“He’s scraping by, as you say, with his work,” Mrs. Holmes corrected her, “and the drugs were an unfortunate misstep on his part. So, Miss Hooper, why do you think you are a better choice for my son than Miss Adler?”

Molly was alarmed. “I, I didn’t say that,” she stammered, blushing, “I--”

“You implied it quite strongly,” Mrs. Holmes said severely, looking pointedly at her left hand. Molly had to fight the urge to cover or hide it, instead, she gripped her saucer more fiercely. “Well?”

Molly had to take two breaths. “I want whatever makes Sherlock happy. Being with Irene Adler won’t,” she said simply, although it was rather shaky.

“You’re rather docile when it comes to Sherlock, and yet you’re in the business of cutting up bodies. How long do you think he will be interested in someone who rolls over every time he asks?” Mrs. Holmes raised an eyebrow.

Molly looked down at her tea cup, then put it and the saucer down. “I don’t,” she said softly, still looking down, “but I know he will never be bored when it comes to his job. I know what it’s like to put your life into your job, it becomes its own reward, even if others disagree. There is something noble in doing what you love, even if it doesn’t pay as well as it should, Mrs. Holmes, and I admire that about Sherlock. Were he an actor or a science teacher, as long as it made him happy and he could throw himself into it whole-heartedly, that would be enough.”

“Would it?” The elder woman’s tone is musing, and Molly looks up. “You are young, intelligent, and attractive enough. Would playing second fiddle to his work make you happy?”

Molly blinked, then smiled a little. “As long as he doesn’t mind playing second fiddle to mine. He can be rather demanding, however,” she frowned a little. No, make that very demanding. After all, he asked her to play his fiancée, didn’t he?

“What if he asks you to give up your job for his?” Mrs. Holmes asked, a little too casually.

The fact that it would even occur to this woman made Molly smile unexpectedly. “He would never do that,” she giggled, in spite of herself.

Her reaction seemed to discomfit the other woman. “Why ever not?”  
“Because he needs me to be a pathologist,” Molly said, and the older woman looked at her blankly. “You know, because of his job.”

“What if he decides to change professions?” And when faced with Molly’s blank expression, Mrs. Holmes sighed. “It will change everything.”

“Perhaps, but I’ve noticed his changes are always for the better,” Molly said.

“They were,” Mrs. Holmes stressed the second word, “until your rather sudden engagement. Tell me, what will happen when you have children? Have you discussed childcare, how you will pay the bills, education, anything like that?” She looked smug when Molly looked mortified. “I see. And do you really expect me to believe I would allow my grandchildren to flounder about in the parochial school system while you two get your heads together?”

Molly blushed. She really hadn’t thought about taking the charade that far. But, in for a penny, in for a pound, as they say. “If they’re anything like Sherlock, they’ll flourish no matter where they’re at,” she said, “and if they’re anything like me, they’ll do just fine.”

“Just fine?” Mrs. Holmes frowned. “No Holmes is ‘just fine’.”

I can see that, Molly wants to say, but she’s not brave like John, or witty like Mary and Meena, or clever like Sherlock. Instead, she says, “And they will be happy, healthy, and loved.” At least, that’s what she’s always hoped her own children would be, and how she’s tried to live her life, in spite of where she came from.

The other woman isn’t just frowning at her, she’s staring hard at her. Did she say something wrong? It can’t be all that shocking, could it? No, that was just your average wish for your children, right? Or perhaps that was too normal for the Holmeses? It was starting to make Molly’s head hurt trying to anticipate what the other woman might be thinking. “Well,” she said, after what seemed like ages. “I think the two of you should discuss your future in more detail, see if they align as happily as you think,” although by the smug look on the older woman’s face, it was clear Mrs. Holmes doubted that. “And do let me know what he says.”

“Couldn’t you just ring him and ask him yourself?” Molly frowned, confused.

Mrs. Holmes lifted her chin. “We don’t talk. He answers when he feels like it.”

“What?” Molly was incensed. She may not agree with her mother on many things, but at least she picks up the phone. And even though the woman is clearly insane at times, Sherlock should at least have the decency to treat his mother with respect, as he’s clearly insane at times himself. “But he’s your son!”

“Exactly,” Mrs. Holmes said, oddly amused. “But that’s how my children are.”

Molly was too angry to really think about that. Instead, she said, “Would you please excuse me? I think I need to have a chat with my fiancée.”

“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Holmes is still strangely smiling as Molly storms out.


	28. Chapter 28

They were in a cab on the way to their respective homes when Sherlock’s mobile beeped. “We need to have a talk,” Sherlock read the text from Molly, and frowned in confusion.

“What’s that?” John asked, and Sherlock showed him. “Uh-oh.”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock’s frowned deepened.

John smirked. “Usually, when women say they ‘need to have a talk’ with you, they really want to air some grievance. And you have to sit there and take it.”

“Why should I take it when it’s possible it’s all a misunderstanding?” Sherlock pouted. “And what possible grievance should Molly have to air?”

“Oh, I don’t know, asking her to pretend to be your fiancée, making her face your dragon of a mother, pitting her against someone like Irene Adler, could be anything,” his traitorous friend said blithely.

“Knew I should’ve lied to you,” Sherlock grumbled.

“Oh no, someone needed to back you up when Lestrade and the rest of the Yarders goggled at your ring,” John smirked again. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have believed it myself. Still don’t, really.” Then his expression changed. “I’ll ask Mary to back you up, too. No sense in having loose ends.”

“Why don’t you blog about it?” Sherlock grumbled. “Let the whole world know.”

“Yeah, I should,” John sounded agreeable, “makes it more real. I’m not saying I’m looking forward to getting kidnapped by Mycroft about this, but at least I’ll know what I’m going in with.”

Sherlock looked out the window. It was all so complicated, and it was all Mummy and Mycroft’s fault. Why couldn’t they just leave him alone?

“Oh, and Sherlock?”

“Hm?” Sherlock didn’t look away from the window, but he could see John’s reflection.

“On behalf of Molly’s family, should they ever get wind of this, if you ever really break her heart, I’ll break your arms.” Sherlock turned to look at John, who was deadly serious. “She’s a good girl, Sherlock. And somebody’s got to be on her side, too.”

“Aren’t you on my side?” Sherlock asked, for some reason just a small percent concerned. Yes, just a very small percent.

“Of course,” John said, “but it’s obvious Molly’s not got family close enough to kidnap you. So. I’m on your side, you know that, but if you ever treat her worse than you did that first Christmas party--”

“Yes, yes, broken arms,” Sherlock said quickly, “oh look, there’s Mary.”

John shook his head. “Emotions mean more to women than to men, remember,” he said, “and just take whatever she dishes out.”

Sherlock sighed heavily. “This is worse than actually being engaged, I’m not supposed to have to deal with these things.”

The blonde man smiled brightly. “Isn’t it lovely?” Then he stepped out of the cab. “Hey, Mary, guess what?”

Sherlock urged the cabbie to leave quickly, fearing that Mrs. Watson would throw something at him, or worse, congratulate him. His foreboding brought on by John’s warning only deepened when Molly added, “It’s about your mum.” She probably was going to be cross about having to talk with a woman like that, if her crossness about Adler was anything to go by.

Really, he thought the point of a false engagement was to prevent things like this, this emotional business, from happening, and yet it is. Something’s very wrong with this, he pouted, it’s like Mummy is winning no matter what he tries.


	29. Chapter 29

Molly is on her third cup of tea, Toby in her lap, when she hears Sherlock come in. She isn’t sure if that makes her a Bond villain or some Austen character, but it does seem rather stereotypical however one looks at it. “Molly,” he says, and she looks at him.

Most of her anger has leeched out, and now all she has are questions. “Sherlock, when was the last time you had tea with your mother?”

His face pales slightly as he sits in his chair opposite hers. So, she has that effect on everyone, she thinks. “The day after I left the rehabilitation center.”

Oh dear, that must’ve been even worse timing for him. “Was she always like that, or does she act like that on special occasions?” She really is hoping at least their childhood was spared the tongue-lashing, please.

He gives her a look, and she sighs. “Right. Of course. Gosh, I thought my mum was bad, but at least she doesn’t do it on purpose.” Then she regrets what she’s just said. “Oh gosh, I’m--”

“Don’t say it,” Sherlock interrupted her. “What else?”

She blinked. “Well, can you at least pretend to be polite when your mother calls? Or texts? She is your mother, even if she can be horrible.” His lips thin, but he only nods. “And Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“She asked what our plans were for our children.” She blushed, she couldn’t help it.

“What?” He looked rather alarmed.

“I’m guessing that she felt she’d have free reign bringing up your children if you were marrying Miss Adler, but she seems concerned that our children would have a substandard life or something.” There’s still the sting of indignation that her own upbringing was less than acceptable, even as she knew her parents’ shortcomings. Nobody she knew had a perfect childhood, but hers was fairly decent, thank you.

Rather than brushing her off, Sherlock leaned forward from his chair. “You said you were proposed to before? Who was it, and why did you reject him?”

Molly was startled into a laugh. “What makes you think I rejected him?”

He frowned. “Well, if he rejected you, you would still be thinking of him. You would bring him up and compare his proposal to mine, you would be unhappy with your present situation and think what if you had accepted and what kind of life you’d be living.” His eyes narrowed. “You seem fairly content with your lot in life, and aren’t mooning over someone else. So? Was it your job or did he have someone else? No, wait, don’t tell me.” He stared at her for a disconcertingly long time, or it felt that way to her, before he said in a rush, “It was your job. He wanted to stay back, while you wanted to come here. You’ve thought about him, but not often, mostly in the first couple of months living here, but have only remembered him after recent events. He’s probably living the life he wanted back home, while you are content with your work and life here.” His nose twitched. “And your cat.”

She laughed. “Stop that, I know you’re secretly fond of Toby.” Before he could protest, she went on, “That was pretty good. A little creepy, but good.”

He shrugged. “It’s a typical story.”

“Yes, but usually for women who want something glamorous that London holds. There’s nothing glamorous about dead bodies,” she shrugged back.

He frowned. “Yes, there is.”

She smiled. “You are one of the few, Sherlock.” Then she decided to ask before she chickened out, “So, what would your plans for your children be?”

He blinked. “I don’t know.”

“What?” That threw her.

He shrugged. “I never thought about it. My work is not conducive to raising a child, of ensuring its safety or health. No woman in her right mind would want to be with me if she knew that she would be forever having to be put in second place to a crime scene, or that things like birthdays or anniversaries would be forgotten to have room for criminal data. She would not risk exposing the child to my work, or my world, because it is a dangerous one, and would either try to raise it all by herself thanklessly or send it off to boarding school at the first opportunity after a run of tutors and nannies. The child, for I doubt she’d wish to procreate further with me, would not recognize me as a father, for I would not wish to shackle myself with the dull duties of having to raise a child, nor force myself to project emotions I don’t have for its psychological well-being.” He smiled, but it was lacking warmth of any kind. “So you see, Molly Hooper, on paper, having a loveless marriage is an excellent idea, but a woman like Adler would still put demands on my time, energy and memory that I don’t have any to spare.”


	30. Chapter 30

“That sounds sad,” Molly said without thinking, for she immediately put her hand to her mouth. “Oh!”

“Good, you’re learning,” Sherlock smirked. “It’s not sad, it’s true. Can you imagine me changing diapers, or bottle feeding, or keeping a curious toddler away from poisonous chemicals and severed body parts? I think not.”

It appeared she was imagining exactly that, but to his surprise, she started to giggle. “Oh, Sherlock,” she said, “at least you won’t have to worry about the baby waking you up, you don’t sleep regularly anyway.”

He glared at her, but she only giggled some more. “I can’t imagine Irene Adler having children, although it seems your mother can. Do you think she’d really let her body get all big just for the sake of giving your mother some grandkids?”

He frowned again. “There you go again, trying to pair me with that Adler woman. Why are you so insistent on that?”

“I don’t know, because, like you said, on paper, it makes sense,” she said innocently enough. “If there were someone else like her, I suppose I’d bring them up, too.”

 _Mummy’s madness is infectious,_ he thought. “Don’t,” he said, “unless it’s to say she’s completely unsuitable. Just because we seem similar doesn’t mean it’s a good match.”

Now she frowned. “Well, what about Mary and John? They’re similar enough.”

He scoffed, “The only things they have in common are their mutual affection for each other, short heights, and terrible sense of humor. Everything else, from their backgrounds to their work experiences, are opposite.”

“So you’re saying you need an opposite if you were to actually marry,” she said after a while.

“No, I’m saying I need no one to marry because there is no one I would marry,” he corrected her. “Real or hypothetical.” 

“So what do you see as your future, then?” she asked, less concerned and more confused. Well, it was something of an improvement.

This he has thought about. “When my body is no longer able to run down criminals and my mind is less acute, I should like to move to the country and raise bees.”

She blinked. “That sounds very prosaic.”

He smirked. “Unless technology improves at such a rate that I could implant my mind as it is into a continual-motion machine with adequate strength, speed and agility, I will have to retire some time. And bees are not boring.”

She smiled. “I never said they were. Um, you’re not allergic to them, are you?”

“No, although I am told the stings are painful, nonetheless.” Then he shrugged. “That is, if I live to see an old age. In my line of work, that’s not a given.”

She seemed stricken by that thought. Had it never occurred to her? Perhaps not, as he did have a way of recovering from incidents like he had nine lives, according to John. “It’s nice to know that you do have something to look forward to,” she said, starting to cheer up again. “It’s funny to think of you as an old man, doddering about in a beekeeper’s suit.” He made a face, and she smiled. “I take it back, it’s not funny, it’s sweet.”

“It’s not sweet, it’s practical,” he glowered. Just because Molly is into cats and cute things, doesn’t mean she’s turning him into something cute.

She’s still smiling when she goes upstairs for a bath. Then he realizes he never asked her what she wanted for her future. From the content of the conversation and her inferences, it’s probable that she’d want to get married and have children, stay in London and work as long as she can. He supposes that shouldn’t be too hard for her, since, statistically, her chances of finding a like-minded man in this city is high as opposed to her hometown, she’s agreeable enough for most men to want as a wife and mother of their children, and she’s a fairly competent and reliable worker. It’s only a matter of time, after this false engagement, that is, until that happens and Sherlock needs another flatmate.

Ugh. Boring. On to other matters. He opens Molly’s laptop to see if John had written up their first case after his honeymoon, or if Mary still is, in John’s parlance, “keeping him up all night”. Fortunately for John’s brain cells, if not libido, it does appear there’s a new blog entry, entitled “Round and Round the Norbury Grove”. Perhaps he should get him a book of less horrible puns for Christmas, since John isn’t doing so well in that respect. Wonder if there is such a thing, and if not, perhaps there’s a website. _There should always be a website for any kind of need or information,_ Sherlock thinks as he types into the search engine. 

The talk of babies and children, however, is still lodged in his mind, and Sherlock wonders if John and Mary intend to have any children. Perhaps. They seem suitable as parents, what with their temperaments and all, and seem less likely to harm a child than others, and Mary is still within the healthy range for childbirth. He wonders if John would ever teach his children to shoot a gun, or if Mary would compete with John in taking in their children’s accomplishments. He can see John changing diapers, but only very unwillingly. They’d probably both fight for a bit of sleep, knowing their nocturnal habits. At the very least, he hopes their children have Mary’s nose, and if they’re very unlucky, they’ll have John’s temper.

That makes him smile, although he doesn’t realize it, and he really, really hopes that John won’t teach them to shoot until they’re at least twelve.


	31. Chapter 31

Molly Hooper has had a long week. She hasn’t been sleeping well lately, and for very good reason – her life is becoming something of a soap opera. While she doesn’t mind watching it, she does mind living it, thank you very much. Aside from multiple visits by both Mycroft and Irene Adler, she’s currently recovering from a surprise engagement party thrown by Meena.

“The worst thing was, I found out only by reading Watson’s blog,” her friend gave her an arch look, and Molly smiled weakly. “Trying to escape the party, are we?”

“A bit,” Molly tried to hedge a little, although she was thinking of how to escape what her life had become. She was fighting a bit of a fever and wanted to go home, but since Meena and the others had gone through the trouble, she felt bad about not attending. Then again, the reason why she hadn’t really told them was because she thought it would be over and done with before they found out. _Things never quite work out the way you planned, eh?_ Molly thought to herself as she sipped another mocktini. She’s not quite sure if it’s got actual alcohol in it because her head’s already feeling a little fuzzy, and she’s not even sure if this is her second or fifth drink, they keep refilling it so quickly.

Molly had begged off any more drinks, saying she had the morning shift, and while everyone groaned, they merrily sent her on her way. “Can’t wait ‘til you get home to that fit detective of yours, eh?” Meena grinned, making Molly blush.

Thankfully, Molly had enough on her Oyster card to get her home, and catches the bus. When the bus breaks down, she sighs, gets off the bus and figures that’s just the way her luck is rolling. She wearily texts Sherlock, “Sorry, won’t be able to go shopping. Not enough money for Tube and groceries.”

Sherlock texts her back, “They’ve shut down a couple of lines on the Tube, including the one you take. – SH”

“Brilliant,” she groaned, and that’s when it starts to rain.

She’s had a long day and not enough sleep, so she doesn’t move fast enough like the rest of the dislodged passengers and other pedestrians to duck under the nearby awnings. She doesn’t have enough money to spend for a token “thanks for keeping me out of the rain” gift from the nearby shops, either, and decides to walk home. It should be about half an hour, her tired mind tells her, the bus wasn’t that far from the Tube station.

So she started making her way towards Baker Street, and she thought she was doing okay, making good time on that, until her head started hurting, and everything looked rather blurry. She winced and sat on the sidewalk, too tired to care about decency and appearance, since she was already soaked, tired, and really not feeling all that fine. Before she knew it, she was leaning against some kind of thin metallic pole, its coolness easing the heavy pounding in her head.

“Get up,” Sherlock’s sharp voice cut through the fog of fuzziness that was Molly’s head.

“Sher,” talking seemed so hard now, “Sherlock.”

“Dammit,” he grumbled, crouching in front of her, and pulling her arms around his neck. “Good God, woman, you’re burning up. Why aren’t you inside like everyone else?” He hefted her onto his back, and carried her piggyback style, something she hadn’t done since she was a child on her father’s back.

“Can’t buy,” she sighed against his heavy coat, closing her eyes.

“I’m sure if you could think straight, you’d use the grocery money to appease what little sense passes for civility.” He stopped, but she didn’t open her eyes. “You’re too weak today, that shouldn’t – You idiot, you probably just had an apple for lunch coupled with a lack of sleep on top of all that alcohol you imbibed at that party,” Sherlock scolded her.

Molly couldn’t remember the last time she slept, or anything, really. Finally, she said, “Yeah, I think so.”

“Hmph,” he said, “we’re almost home.”

That was fast, she would say, except she’s too tired to say anything. Soon, she’s sitting on the sofa, and there’s a cup of tea held to her lips. She tries to drink it, honestly, but she’s more interested in sleeping. There’s a gusty sigh, and thankfully, she’s allowed to flop over the back. She’s not sure, but she thinks he says, “Can you undress?” But there’s no way Sherlock would ask her that, right? She tries to laugh, but it’s just a soft thing from her lips, and all she wants to do is sleep. “You’re going to worsen your fever in those wet clothes,” he scolds her again.

She argues, or tries to, but there’s just unintelligible mumbling and she closes her eyes again. In her dream, she’s lifted up and carried someplace, and she feels even colder with the loss of her damp clothes. But she’s soon dried off and wearing nice warm clothes, and is tucked into bed. She feels a warm wet cloth on her forehead, and she thinks she’s smiling, because the thank you doesn’t seem to go past her lips. Soft, furry Toby makes his way to her chest, sitting on it and purring up a storm. His purrs, something that she’s missed in the last few days, finally send her to sleep.

She isn’t consciously aware that Sherlock changes the washcloth every half hour, nor does she notice that he props her up to sip water through a straw when he thinks she’s reasonably awake. It never would occur to her that John never taught him how to care for an ill person, but somewhere in her muzzy head, she’s grateful that she’s warm, hydrated, and cared for.


	32. Chapter 32

Sherlock woke up in Molly’s room the next morning, disoriented for .46 seconds, when the events of the previous night came back to him. Then he sighed, closed his eyes, and relaxed in the iron grip of his faux fiancée.

It was with tidy efficiency that Sherlock stripped her of her wet clothing, save for her underwear, and replaced it with her usual at-home uniform. As neat as his nannies, he covered her up with her blanket, and was about to add a duvet when her cat made itself at home on her chest and commenced purring. Fine. The cat was a source of heat and warmth, he had no problem with that. He did have a problem with Molly’s lack of hydration, she’d barely had any tea. So the next time he came up with a fresh washcloth, it was accompanied by a glass of flat water with a straw. She didn’t seem capable of sitting upright, so he propped her up in his arms. 

He continued to care for her throughout the night, all the while pondering on other alternatives to his situation, all of which he dismissed out of practicality or illegality (though those were the most tempting). And for his pains in caring for her, the feverish Molly had repaid him by dragging him into bed, her iron grip brooking no argument, as he couldn’t find a means to free himself without unduly injuring her in the process. For a couple of seconds, he thought she was shamming her illness and unconscious, but when he sharply barked at her, she didn’t respond, her grip not loosening one whit as her breathing stayed even, along with her high temperature. He knew that if she were in her right mind and awake, she’d be doing the opposite, screaming and pushing him away, not holding him so close that only their clothes separated them.

Well, he was already in his home clothes as well, so he might as well make the best of the situation and pass out alongside her. It was then that the wretched cat made itself at home on her hip, purring in even tones along with its softly snoring mistress. “Your owner is an idiot,” he stated to the cat. The cat narrowed its eyes, but continued to stay on its perch. Irritated, Sherlock tried swiping at the cat, but it easily moved out of his reach. Stupid creature. So he’d promptly gone to sleep, having exhausted most of his human resources in caring for the idiotic girl who was now holding onto him like a teddy bear. Ugh.

And now he was awake, his eyes unhelpfully closed, and Molly was snoring peacefully, her fever having been broken approximately two hours ago. She had released her grip sometime during the night, before her fever broke, but Sherlock was too lazy to leave her bed. After all, he didn’t have any pressing cases, and the cat felt oddly comfortable on his stomach.

The idyllic peace was soon shattered when Molly’s mobile rang. Sherlock grabbed it before it got to the second ring. “Hello,” he said flatly as Molly’s hand automatically slapped his face trying to get to her phone.

“Hello?” a woman’s voice said as he moved her hand off his face. “Is this Molly Hooper’s phone?”

“Yes,” he said, “please excuse her from work today, as she’s recovering from both a fever and a party she really shouldn’t have gone to. Good day.” And he hung up, then set her phone on silent. If she was woken up by the ring and that conversation, it was not his fault.

It took her about eight minutes and thirty-two seconds before she properly woke up. And when she did, she did not disappoint his expectations. She sighed, her arm still on his chest, and she snuggled against him without knowing who it was she was next to or what she was doing. It took her about forty-one seconds to realize exactly that, and when she did, she squeaked, coughed, and attempted to grab the blankets in a mistaken attempt to shield herself from him.

He sighed and opened his eyes, but didn’t move. The bloody cat was still on his stomach. “You were feverish, grabbed me into bed after I had hydrated you,” he stressed “hydrated”, “and we’ve been asleep ever since. Nothing else to disturb your Victorian morals has happened.”

“Oh, shut up,” she said in a croak. Then she squinted at him. “What time is it?”

“Nine thirty-nine,” he said, judging from the time St. Bart’s called her until now.

“What?” she said up suddenly, then groaned. “Ohhhh…”

He sighed, then pulled her back down to bed. “Shut up and go back to sleep. I told them you were ill and needed rest. I’ll get you some water and paracetamol as soon as your cat gets off my stomach.”

Molly would argue, but it appears her horrible health has gotten the better of her, and she shoves her cat off him. The cat yowls in protest, but doesn’t look unduly concerned as it hops off the bed, as if it meant to do so all along. “Thank you,” she says, and closes her eyes.

He huffs, then sits up and does what he said he’d do. When he came back, she yawned, then struggled to sit up. “No, just lean on your elbow, it’s less bother for your head,” he corrected her, and she does that. “Here,” and he handed her the pills and the cup with water and a straw in it.

She obediently swallows the pills and sips the water, then frowned a little. “Did you do this all night?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, as if he had better things to do but suffered to take care of her anyways.

“Oh,” she said, pink tingeing her cheeks. Now what? “I can’t believe I dragged you into bed. I usually throw people out.”

“I know,” he said sourly, showing her the bruises on his arms. “Apparently, your unconscious self thought I was helpful as a stuffed animal substitute. Please refrain from such behavior in the future.”

“I’m sor – I mean, okay,” she said, her eyes downcast. Then she started to giggle, but it turned into a cough, and she winced. “Ooh. I would’ve warned you, but I haven’t been sick for ages.”

“Recent events have taken a toll on your health, have they not?” he said, less a question and more a statement. “And all that alcohol dehydrated you and left you with even less cognizance to deal with wet weather than usual.”

“Um, yeah,” she said, then put the empty glass on the side and lay down again. “Thanks.”

He frowned. “For what?”

Her eyes, which were starting to close, opened a little. “I dunno. Being nice?”

He hmphed, then picked up the water glass. “I am never nice.” And he left her to slide back into unconsciousness, while he checked on his latest experiment, which pointedly did not involve a cat named Toby. At all.


	33. Chapter 33

The next time Molly wakes up, she’s feeling loads better, the effect of having had loads of sleep, of having slept through work hours, and having a cat to keep her company whether awake or asleep. She yawned and stretched, sighing as her shoulders cracked. Then she remembered her morning and blushed up a storm. Putting her hands to her cheeks, she groaned in embarrassment. “Oh my God, Toby, did he really do all that? I mean, really?”

The spotted tabby merely blinked, then started licking his front left paw.

“And did I really grab him and hold him like a teddy bear? Or was he just making it all,” her voice trailed off, remembering the bruises he showed her. “Oh dear.”

There’s a knock on the door, and a “whoo-hoo!”, letting her know Mrs. Hudson was on the other side. “Molly, good, you’re awake,” her landlady smiled.

Molly smiled a tired smile back. “Hello, Mrs. Hudson.” When her eyes finally made it to the tray bearing soup, crackers, and more water, she almost cried. “You’re a saint,” she said.

“Just this once,” the elder woman winked, “I’m not your housekeeper.”

“Of course not,” Molly agreed, and helped herself to the soup. “Mrs. Hudson?”

“Yes?”

“Has Miss Adler been around?” She hadn’t thought to ask before, not having had enough sleep, and having been harassed at work more than enough by said Adler.

The landlady frowned. “She comes by once in a while, but Sherlock’s never here. I can’t tell if he’s got this place watched or he’s extremely lucky, but they always miss each other.”

Molly makes a face. “Wish I had that kind of luck. She keeps bothering me at work.”

“Perhaps to make up for not seeing Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson nods wisely, “those types of girls, never satisfied to ruin one life, they have to ruin another.”

“Was she always a horrid woman?” Molly muttered, feeling none too pleased about recent events. Then she gasped, “Oh, I didn’t mean--”

“It’s all right, dear,” the matronly woman patted Molly’s shoulder, “I’m sure this is the first time in a long time she’s been thwarted and she’s not taking it well.”

“I’m not taking her well,” Molly sighed. “Thanks, Mrs. Hudson.”

Mrs. Hudson smiled again, “Just you rest, dear.” And she left, presumably to watch her afternoon talk shows.

Molly picked up her mobile, then frowned at how many text messages she’s missed. “I didn’t hear a thing,” she murmured, then double-checked her phone. Oh, Sherlock set it to silent. Figures. After finishing off her soup, she replied to Meena, Mary, and her mum. Okay, a lot of “M”s there. She smiled, finished her water, and went off to use the loo. Now that she was free for the day and Sherlock was out, she thought she might as well use her own laptop for once and check her email.

It was mostly full of spam, with the odd email here and there from old college classmates, invites to medical lectures, and reminders for various checkups. When she logged out, her news page was filled with stories on the latest hacking scandal. Apparently, the Professor, as the media had taken to calling him, based on one of his earliest hack signatures about five years ago, had broken into an exclusive set of Swiss bank accounts. They’d assumed he was Chinese, based on point of origin of the first few hacks, but in recent years, it was believed that he was based in Europe. Today’s hack involved a Trojan horse that leaked personal information about Scotland Yarders. “I’ll bet Lestrade isn’t too happy about that,” Molly murmured, skimming through various articles, “although I’m sure Sherlock is pleased to be on a case again.”

She decided to bite the bullet and scrolled down to read the celebrity gossip, hoping that a has-been opera singer wasn’t worth writing about. Fortunately for her, the blurb was only a couple of sentences long before she had to click on the link, which she didn’t, and went on to read about other celebrities misbehaving, or saying stupid things, or wearing the most interesting and daring outfits.

She felt so good, in fact, resting at home, that she returned to work the next day, and had almost a week of peace. Almost, that is, if one doesn’t include Sherlock nearly climbing the walls as the Professor continued to elude him. Molly hoped he would catch the hacker soon, for her sanity, if not Sherlock’s.


	34. Chapter 34

Sherlock Holmes is having an odd day. For one thing, perfect strangers know who he is. Well, they’re not perfect, but they’re definitely strangers, even if they say they’re not. For another, they claim to be his friends. Friends? What friends? And for yet another, he’s affianced to a mousy-looking girl, which is completely unbelievable. Why on earth would he be attached to someone like her?

“Are you sure it’s amnesia and you’re not reverting to your completely dickish behavior?” the former army doctor says. He can tell he was an army doctor, it’s just harder to believe this short, annoying man is his partner in detecting and chronicler of such cases. He obviously types with just two fingers, the pointer finger of each hand. Then again, blogging doesn’t seem to require actual typing or writing skills.

Sherlock lifted his chin. “I’m behaving perfectly normally. I don’t see what your problem is.”

“Oh God,” the man who called himself John Watson sighed. “Molly, if you want to stay over at our place--”

“No, it’s fine,” the frumpy little Molly Hooper said nervously. “You said the inspector would look after him, see that nobody will attack any time soon.”

The short blonde man sighed. “Yeah, well, I didn’t figure somebody would use a car to knock this idiot out. Dunno what they’ve got planned next.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Sherlock snapped. “Just because I’m not aware of what’s happened in the last few years--”

“It’s all right,” Molly put her hands up. “You’ll remember. You’ll figure it out. You always do. And when you do, you and John will get the bad guys, like you always do.”

John smiled a crooked grin. “There, you’re getting the hang of it,” he patted Molly on the shoulder.

Sherlock frowned. “Getting the hang of what?”

“Cheering your sorry self up,” his so-called friend grinned unrepentantly. “All right, we’ll get you home, then I’ll talk to Lestrade, and Molly here will try to catch you up on everything that isn’t online.” He gave Molly a look, and she blushed a little. Sherlock found he didn’t like how suspicious that was, but the detective inspector, whom he did remember, vouched for them both, so he may as well go home and get cleaned up. At the very least, it should be no problem overpowering the female if she should prove intractable.

Once they got home to 221B, Molly explained his current circumstances to the landlady, who was more nosy and bothersome than he expected for someone who housed him longer than a month, and fairly flew up the stairs. He thought it a bit odd that it had seventeen steps, but one couldn’t count on perfect architecture from this period. He scanned the living room, which bore his marks quite clearly, including a smiling face spray painted on the wallpaper, and bullet holes punctuating said graffiti. He wondered if the landlady, Mrs. Hudson, was a bit senile due to indulging in a form of semi-legal pharmaceutical relaxants since the last time he saw her in Florida. Most of his books were on the shelves, including a few so-called thrillers he supposed was from his previous flatmate, along with a handful of “romance novels” and a couple of textbooks from the still-practicing Dr. Hooper.

He narrowed his eyes as the long-haired girl came up the stairs. “Well, my things are here,” he said, “at least that much is true.”

She murmured, “Your things are everywhere. If you haven’t seen the kitchen yet, it’s got body parts in the fridge, and your bedroom’s there.” She pointed to the room opposite the living room. “I’m up there,” and she pointed to another set of steps.

He frowned again. “We’re not really affianced, are we?”

She sighed, and sat down, a large spotted-white tabby soon leaping onto her lap. “No. Just to let you know, it was all your idea,” she said quickly, “you wouldn’t marry Irene Adler because it was your mother’s and brother’s idea.” Then she put a hand to her mouth. “You do remember your family, don’t you?”

He rolled his eyes. “Unfortunately, yes. And why would Adler, no,” he put up a hand, working backwards from her statement and his rather ridiculous solution to reach the source, “oh. Yes, of course she would want their money. And of course, I wouldn’t want to give in to their whims. The question becomes,” he frowned at her, “why are you going along with this?”

She shook her head. “It sounded harmless at the time, but after being constantly hounded by Irene every time you dodged her, or getting yelled at by your mum at tea,” his eyes widened, he couldn’t believe this flustered woman would go that far for a farce, “and occasionally getting surprised by a fan or two, well, I thought it would be over a long time ago.” She blinked. “The fake engagement, I mean.”

“I know,” his lower lip jutted slightly up. “Still, this is strange. Why would Mummy dredge up someone like Adler to be my fiancée? I’m surprised Mycroft didn’t offer one of his underlings up for the sacrifice of spying on me.” His eyes narrowed again. “You don’t look like a spy.”

“I’m not!” she cried, pink spots dotting her cheeks. “Your brother tried to bribe me with a flat closer to work.”

“And you didn’t take it?” he tilted his head. “Odd. It’s obvious you used to have fond feelings for me, although apparently time and actually living with me have, for lack of a better phrase, killed them off. But you turned down a rather hefty bribe and you’re playing along in this charade. How are you benefiting from this arrangement?”

Her large brown eyes have an irritating, almost dull quality as they widen considerably. “You should get knocked on the head more often,” are the surprising words that come from her mouth. “You’ve never thought about anything from anyone else’s point of view, unless it’s a criminal.”

He snorted, then leaned into her space. “It’s not an altruistic question, Miss Hooper. Why are you going along with this, when it’s obvious you’ve recently recovered from an illness, brought on by stress, most likely due to the weight of pretending to be someone you’re not?”

Her breathing has increased, as has her heartrate. Her eyes have widened to near-impossible proportions, but then, it’s possible she isn’t even aware of how she’s reacting. So, her feelings aren’t entirely squashed. Or perhaps that’s how she always behaves around a male in close quarters. Some further study might be advisable, to prevent her from always acting this flustered. It’s rather ridiculous to have that in a flatmate. “I was waiting for you to be brilliant,” she squeaked, underlining his “mousy” assessment in one way, but surprisingly cutting at the same time.

“What do you mean?” he glared at her.

“I mean,” and now she looks down at her cat, as if suddenly remembering she has other options in her viewing, “having a fake fiancée is not the best of ideas. I was honestly expecting you to turn your mother down flat constantly, but it seems she’s the only woman you actually can’t say no to.” Her mouth twists into a smile, but it’s a jerky one. “I even tried to get her to see reason, but it seems everyone in your family has, well, interesting ways of thinking. She managed to wind me up before I left, and that wasn’t fun.”

“Nobody can really say no to Mummy,” Sherlock said glumly, then put his hands on her shoulders. “So what made you think you could?”

Her shoulders rose, her posture defensive. “I was hoping she’d come to her senses if it was just me being peaceful, rather than you being antagonistic. Silly me.”

“Yes, rather,” he said, his frown deepening.


	35. Chapter 35

“Sherlock?” Molly’s voice quavered, and she hated the way it still did that, even after all this time.

“Hm?”

“Could you please get off my shoulders? You’re rather heavy.”

He harrumphed, but stood up, releasing her as he did so. Breathing a small sigh of relief, she looked down again, and started petting Toby. It was odd, how calm her cat could be when Sherlock was around, but then again, Toby did have interesting taste. “I still don’t understand,” he said, irritated. “Why would I pick you? Why didn’t I pick someone else?”

Molly shook her head. “I asked you the same thing. You said something about loyalty, that you needed a face for your work, and that John and I were the only ones who weren’t bribable.” She smiled a little. “Good thing for John he’s married, or I’m sure you’d try to rope him into your mad plan first.”

“I noticed the ring, rather recent wedding, I take it,” he said, and she nodded. “I suppose his wife’s just as dull as he is.”

“Mary’s not dull!” Molly glared in defense of her friend. “You were his best man, you said the most lovely things about her and John!”

“I was?” he frowned, confused. “That’s odd.”

Molly’s starting to miss the old, no, this is the old, so, the post-John Sherlock. This one is even more horrible than the one she first met at the morgue when he used the riding crop on Mr. Jenkins’ corpse. “Does that mean that our engagement is off, since you can’t remember?”

He frowned. “No. I’ll continue as usual until I recover my memory. Wouldn’t want my enemies thinking something had changed, or that I was faking my illness.”

As if insanity could be faked, Molly thought despairingly. “Care for some tea?” she asked, getting up and carrying Toby.

He blinked. “Did I choose you because of your very accommodating nature?”

“Ah, um, no,” she stuttered, holding Toby closer to her chest.

“Because I don’t think ‘loyalty’ is a suitable excuse,” he said, suddenly in her face again. “Now tell me, why are you pretending to be my fiancée, and why are you even here?”

“Honestly, I don’t know,” Molly shook, not sure she can deal with this Sherlock. He seems infinitely more irritable and dangerous without his recent memory. “You told me to be your flatmate, I needed a place to live after losing my flat, and I accepted. You asked me, no, kept demanding that I act as your fiancée to throw off your family, who clearly aren’t buying it, by the way, and I did. I know I’m repeating myself, and that you hate people repeating themselves, but you just won’t seem to listen!” And to his surprise and her mortification, she burst into a noisy storm of tears. “I’m sorry,” she sniffled, turning to leave for her bedroom.

“Don’t apologize, it’s useless for a flatmate,” he said, and she turned around. “I’ve said that before, haven’t I?”

“Yes,” she says, and takes Toby up with her. She knows she’s running away from the situation, rather than facing it head on, but dealing with Sherlock like he is right now is like dancing over a minefield.

However, she only has about seventeen minutes of peace in bed, getting into a fluffy Mills & Boon paperback with Toby on her lap, when Sherlock bursts into her room. She squeaks in surprise, but he ignores that and marches up to her.

“Molly Hooper?” he said, his face and voice deadly serious.

“Y-yes?” she asked, unable to hide under her blanket how she wants to because that would dislodge Toby.

“Get dressed, we’re going on a date,” he announced, and flies out of the room as suddenly as he came in.

“What?” she gasped, but he’s gone. How utterly bizarre.

Dutifully, however, she changes her clothes yet again, this time into something with a skirt. She’d long ago donated the skimpy dress she’d worn for that first Christmas party, not wanting to invite that kind of scorn again, whether from him or any other man. Not sure where they were going, she only applied a dark lipgloss and tied her hair to the side.

When she came down, he eyed her critically, then pursed his lips. “No.”

“We’re not going on a date?” she raised her eyebrows.

“No, you’re not wearing that,” he said, “sweater’s too casual, you must have a jacket of some sort, do you have any, no, you don’t wear heels, hair looks good, you should tighten the left side of your bra strap, do you have at least a white cotton blouse that buttons up?” Honestly, if he isn’t gay, he would make a smashing fashion consultant, she thought vaguely as he pushed her back up the stairs. “Black flats, if you don’t mind,” he added, “do you always wear brown trainers on a date?”

“They’re pennyloafers, not trainers,” she frowned.

“They’re dreadful,” he corrected her. “Black flats. New blouse.” Then his eyes narrowed. “No, wait,” he said, grabbing her wrist and practically flinging her backwards on to him. She forced herself to relax and allowed herself to be dragged to his bedroom. This was the first time she’d stepped into his room, but she barely had time to look around before she was propelled toward his closet. Of course, his clothes were neatly hung and pressed, in spite of his tendency to not do any housework or chores whatsoever. His priorities were mad, just like the rest of him. “Here,” he said, pulling a shirt off one of the hangers. “This should fit you.”

Her eyes widened. “Are you sure? You’re taller, and--”

“Tuck it into your skirt,” he said impatiently, “roll up the cuffs and hide them under your jacket. Hurry.” He started to reach for the sweater she’d buttoned up, but she stepped away.

“I can manage,” she scooted out of there as fast as she could and ran upstairs. She hurriedly changed into the shirt, which of course, was long and broad, but under what she termed her black business jacket, it was fine. And she kicked off her comfortable brown loafers and put on her black flats, the ones she wore to go out with Meena and the girls.

When she came downstairs, the critical eye was no less sharp than before, but he gave a brief nod. “Let’s go,” he said briskly, taking her arm in his, which surprised her. “What?”

“Your arm,” she said, looking down.

“I know how to approximate proper social rituals,” he sniffed, practically hauling her downstairs.

“That’s so romantic when you say it like that,” she almost rolled her eyes, but for her safety, didn’t.

A corner of his mouth went up, and he hailed a cab with his usual supernatural speed. “Romance, you say?” he murmured, opening the door for her, and he gave the name of a very expensive, very well-known restaurant.

 _Oh my God,_ Molly thought, _he’s going to kill me._


	36. Chapter 36

At least he wasn’t bored, Sherlock mused as they put in their orders. It was obvious that Molly Hooper had never been to a restaurant of this caliber, nor had she desired to previously. Strange. Her wants were almost as simple as her needs, it seems. No wonder it was simple for him to ask her to do things for him, her expectation level for a great many things seem to have been rather low. 

But this “date”, as it were, was less a romantic venture than it was a test. He wanted to know why his previous self thought she was capable of handling such a role when it was obvious to even the wait staff that she was barely capable of speaking an entire sentence without fumbling. That, and the fact that she missed the obvious visual cue, his shirt on her body saying she belonged to him, rings aside, made him wonder how he could have selected such an oblivious creature to go up against someone like Irene Adler. “So,” he smiled in a charming fashion, “tell me about yourself.”

She blinked. “You know everything about me.”

He rolled his eyes. “Everything of importance, but nothing of your romantic inclinations. Normal people are notoriously difficult in their dull day-to-day desires. With criminals, it’s easy to deduce what deviance they’re into, who they’re actually sleeping with, that sort of thing. It’s obvious that you once harbored romantic feelings for me, but what your actual taste is, I have no idea. I can hazard a few guesses, but most would likely result in a face doused in water, or you storming out angrily, and if we want to continue our engagement,” he raised an eyebrow, “I would prefer that not to happen. So. What does the perfect man look like to you?” He smiled briefly, and began to drink the wine before him.

“Um, well,” she looked down at the table, “I don’t know. I have a pattern, but that never works out. So I’m not sure what the perfect man for me is.”

“What pattern?” he asks, inclining his head for her to continue.

She takes a quick sip, as if to steady her nerves. Apparently, his demeanor has changed more than he’s expected in five years, as it seems at time she feels comfortable speaking her mind to him, and at others, like now, she appears quite nervous. “Quick, capable, headstrong men who are willing to dismiss me,” she said simply. “They say women tend to pick men like their fathers, but my dad was nothing like that. He was a good man, smart in his own way, and strong.”

“He passed away while you were in secondary,” Sherlock noted.

Molly smiled a jerky smile. “Yes. He’s the reason I got into pathology,” she said. “Originally, I wanted to be an oncologist, but Dad told me to follow my heart. He knew I couldn’t bear to see anyone in pain, so I decided to work with the dead. They’re beyond pain.” And her smile twitched up into a real one, albeit briefly.

Curious. “You’re rather empathetic for someone who works with corpses,” he said, steepling his hands together.

She nodded. “My fiancée in college wanted me to be a children’s psychologist, less problems, he thought. But when children go in for treatment, it’s usually something so horrible, I don’t think I could bear it without crying myself.”

“You do have a tendency towards that,” he murmured.

She narrowed her eyes, and he began to see why he asked this girl to do this odd request. “I also have a tendency to react violently when woken up outside of my alarm,” she said, “feel your jaw to confirm that.”

He felt gingerly around his jaw, thinking the mild tenderness came from being run over, but apparently not. “Anything else I should know?” he asked, wondering how often she’s been underestimated. Her timid demeanor and physicality show nothing of her physical strength, nor of having survived a father who died of cancer.

“Don’t leave anything harmful out, Toby might get into it and I shall be very upset,” she said, trying to sound firm, but failing.

Toby? Ah, the cat. He smirked. “The cat with seven lives surely has enough to spare,” he said.

“Yes, but you’ve only got one,” she shot back. “And you’ve lost part of it today.” Then she looked stricken by the words that just came out of her mouth. “Oh!”

He sighed. She was doing so well, until just then. “No apologies,” he said sternly.

She snorted. “This is not romantic at all,” she said suddenly, her mouth twitching upwards.

“I can do romance,” he pouted.

The long-haired girl put a hand up to her mouth to hide the not-very-pleasing smile. “Not for long, you can’t,” she said behind her hand. “You can’t put up with any kind of sham for long, it’s like it’s against your nature not to be truthful, even if it hurts. No, especially when it hurts. You’re very good at pretending, though, that’s what John says, like being with another person for a bit.”

“So he’s seen me on cases?” he asked. It was odd, like poking at a missing tooth, trying to recover missing memories that he never meant to delete.

The look of sadness mingled with disappointment is one he hasn’t seen since childhood, and yet he’s seen in so recently on the face of this girl and the man called John. “You should really read John’s blog,” she said, “he’s written up a lot of the cases you both take on. That’s how you two make your living, referrals from his blog, which lead to more referrals. You don’t get paid for consulting on cases for Lestrade, although they overlap occasionally.” He pursed his lips. “It’s not flowery, it’s rather straightforward like John is, but it’s rather descriptive, and he manages to get across that what you do, how you think, is not just amazing, but necessary. And while clients do show up from time to time, some email you, and once in a while, you and John find something online.” Hm. He hadn’t thought about checking his email. The amnesia is more of a bother than he expected. Well, he has time to do his research, to restore his portable memory, so to speak.

Then he goes back to what she’s said earlier. “You said I don’t sham for long, that there’s something in my nature that’s meant to be truthful. How long have we been,” he paused, “engaged?”

“Two and a half weeks,” she said, “not including me moving in with you a week prior. Your mother, however, wants you to marry Miss Adler by the end of the month. Something about preparations needing to be made, I think you said.”

There was something definitely suspicious about that. Mycroft could set up the legal matters within a day, three days, if he had to deal with some international dreariness or other. Even Mummy would know that. So why are they giving Sherlock a month to come up with something? From what he can recall, Adler was a has-been opera singer; if she were still beautiful, then probably caught up in some scandal or other. There were honestly any number of women (or men) that his family could have forced him to marry, he just didn’t see the point. The food came in as he pondered the various implications of their choices (or lack thereof). It was quiet as she ate and he picked at his food, his mind more on his family’s machinations.

They were about to leave the restaurant when Sherlock wandered over to the piano in the sitting room. He checked a few keys to see if it was in tune, then started to play. Molly smiled as he began singing a simple song, simple in musical construction and simple in content. He smiled back, pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it with his left hand, playing the primary tune with his right. It was amusing to see the girl look around quickly and fretfully, as if someone might be calling the police on him for merely smoking a cigarette, as opposed to committing an actual crime. He decided to sing and play a few more bars, just to see how long she’d stay fretting about.

To his surprise, before he’d reached the end of the next bar, she pulled out his cigarette and smashed it under her foot. “Your voice and playing are lovely,” she hissed at his ear, her eyes still on the foot traffic, hand futilely fanning at the lingering smoke, “but your manners are still rubbish.”

He snorted, he couldn’t help it. “And you are an older sibling with a sense of overbearing responsibility and low tolerance for social deviation, perhaps because your younger sibling is into, hm, binge drinking and partying. You got off easier than Mycroft, which is probably why still managed to get into a field that is rather unexpected for someone with your shy and simple personality. Otherwise, you’d still be with your unimaginative fiancée living a rather prosaic life in your hometown.”

It was about then that he noticed the footsteps of the maitre d’ and a small retinue of thick-necked men approaching, but before could greet them, pleasantly or no, Molly Hooper took his head in her hands and kissed him.


	37. Chapter 37

She’d often harbored thoughts of smothering him with a pillow to keep him from saying or doing something regrettable, but she never thought she’d be doing this. _This is all your fault, Sherlock,_ Molly thought, _I’d never have done this if you hadn’t started it. And worse, you don’t even remember doing it!_

By his frozen reaction, it’s obvious it hadn’t occurred to this version of Sherlock. She’d revel in the irony, if she weren’t so bloody embarrassed. “Sorry,” she whispered, pulling back.

He sighed. She couldn’t help it, she’d apologized out of habit. “Don’t,” he said firmly, then pulled her to him for another kiss. It was much better than either of their previous kisses, because they were both expecting it, although it was still very bizarre for her. She wasn’t sure what he was thinking or why he was kissing her again, but she wasn’t about to argue, with his arms about her waist and behind her head. When he put his mind to it, he was a great kisser. Then she wondered if what Irene Adler had said was true about him in other areas, and before she could start blushing, there was a not-too-discreet cough.

Oh yes, the maitre d’ and his men. Oh dear. She would’ve leapt away, except Sherlock was holding her in place. Oh dear. She buried her face 

“Yes?” Sherlock’s mildly irritated voice cut through her increasing embarrassment.

“Sir, we must ask you to continue your business outside,” the maitre d’ said, the other men waiting impassively behind him.

“Oh, we were just enjoying the atmosphere of this place,” her “date” smiled winningly at them, freeing a hand to tickle the ivories a bit, while tapping on her waist.

“Oh!” she squealed, blushing hard, even as her mind struggled to make sense of the taps. It had been ages since she’d used Morse code with Billy, and the fact that he actually thought she’d know it said something either of his confidence in her, or his general insanity. Then she realized it spelled, Get out. Sherlock must have deduced something about the maitre d’ then, but doing some quick calculations of her own, she knows that Sherlock needs some help. “Sherlock!” she whacked him on the shoulder with her purse. “Not here!”

“Yes,” he said, his mouth smiling but his eyes were serious.

“Fine,” she huffed, moving away from him and brushing past the maitre d’, “you’re such a trouble maker.”

“And that’s why you love me,” he drawled, standing as she made it to the door. 

Once she was out, she pulled out the mobile from her purse and called John. “Sherlock’s in trouble,” she said and gave the name of the restaurant.

There was a groan at the other end. “I’ll be there in a few,” he said, “can you try and calm things down a bit?”

 _Not ruddy likely,_ she thought, but aloud said, “I’ll try.”

“Great,” he said, and hung up.

She didn’t have Lestrade’s number, although she really should, and didn’t want to risk calling the police in general. So she walked around, then asked the chef taking a smoke break outside to let her back in, as she was worried about her fiancée who hadn’t come out yet. The burly man gave her a knowing smile, and she sighed inwardly, but he let her in through the kitchen. There were quite a few people to go through, but she miraculously avoided disturbing the kitchen staff in their busyness, then made her way to the servers.

“Excuse me,” she said in a wobbly voice, which wasn’t really acting at all, she was worried about Sherlock, tugging on the sleeve of a gentleman at least five years older than she, “could you help me find my fiancée? He said he’d be right out, but the cab left already…”

“I’ll have a look around, Miss,” he smiled down at her. “What does he look like?”

“Tall, dark curly hair, um, a bit on the thin side,” she said quickly.

He saw her distress and went off, calling a couple of other young men with him. Good. At least Sherlock won’t be on his own, but hopefully, they won’t be joining their maitre d’ in beating him up. She counted until five before following after them, hoping against hope that perhaps John might’ve gotten there to help Sherlock.

By the time she got there, one of the burly men nearly knocked her over as he ran out. “Don’t let him get away!” Sherlock called out, even as the wait staff were trying to pull men off of him, no John in sight.

So now she has to do John’s job? At least she can move in her skirt, Molly sighed inwardly, running outside, and, catching sight of him, tucked her head down and barreled into the large man. He went down with a thump, and she rolled away before he could get a hold of her. As he struggled to get back up, she executed a perfect elbow drop on his solar plexus, because his throat was a smaller target. He gasped, trying to get the wind back, but fell back down.

“Oh, thank God,” she sighed, putting a hand to her chest. She wasn’t sure it would work.

“Remind me never to get on your bad side,” John said, jogging up to her in jeans and a jumper.

“John,” she wailed, throwing herself at him, “why didn’t you get here sooner?” And she pounded on his chest, thankfully with only a tenth of what she used on the unconscious man.

He patted her back awkwardly, “You did a good job,” he said, “especially for someone without a weapon.” Then he sighed. “This was your first date with him, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” she sniffled, then pulled tissue from her purse to blow her nose. It was disgusting, but she’d rather take care of it now instead of waiting to run to the ladies’ room and have it drip all the way down in a classy restaurant. “It was horrible.”

He sighed again, then did something of a double-take. “Are you wearing one of his shirts under that jacket?”

She blinked. “Um, yes.” Then she looked chagrined. “I knew it, it was a horrible idea, even if it was Sherlock’s idea.”

He was frowning at her. “He wanted you to wear one of his shirts?”

Oh dear, there’s something she’s missing. “Yes? Why?”

Before he can say anything else, Sherlock staggers out of the restaurant, looking as sour as Molly feels. “You took your time, _partner,_ ” he glowered.

“Ah, but Molly here managed quite well, didn’t she?” he said, patting Molly on the shoulder. “She did that.” And he pointed to the big guy that took two policemen to lift from the ground.

“Knocked him from behind and hit his solar plexus,” Sherlock nodded, “nice bit of street fighting there.” He gave Molly a hard, appraising look, which made her blush for different reasons.

“I have a younger brother,” she repeated, “and as you noted, not a very nice one.”

“Heavier and taller than you, and you’ve had to take care of him whenever you’re home,” Sherlock rattled off, “you know anatomy well enough to hit the right places and enough strength to do the job right, on top of being constantly underestimated and yet constantly relied upon. And yet you know Morse code from that same brother.”

“Yes,” she ducked her head down, and John gave her a sympathetic glance. She met the infamous Harry at John’s wedding, but at least she mostly behaved herself there, as it was a dry wedding and she’d not brought anything alcoholic with her. There were no such promises on Billy’s side when Molly announced her own engagement in college. Then she lifted her head. “Sherlock.”

“Hm?”

She forced her trembling lower lip to calm down, and it did, but only a little. At least there were no tears as she said in a wobbly voice, “That was the worst date I’ve ever been on, and I’ve been on quite a few.”

He frowned. “Really? I thought it was fun.” He honestly had no clue, did he, that egotistical, narcissistic --?

“Of course you would,” John sighed, “let’s get this sorted out with Lestrade and go home. Sherlock, who were those men?”

“Smugglers,” the consulting detective replied, “the maitre d’ was passing off inferior wine while smuggling the genuine article to a private client, somewhere in North Korea, I suspect.”

“Sherlock, what the hell is going on?” the grey-haired and almost-always tired detective inspector joined them. “Thought you said you were on a date.” Then he looked at Molly, whose hair had come undone in the meantime, and had finally finished mopping up her tears. “What the hell did you do to her?”

“Nothing,” her so-called fiancée said in freezing tones, “she did that to herself.” And then proceeded to unload upon the unsuspecting Lestrade the details as they pertained to criminal activity, and none whatsoever with their date, for which she was highly thankful for. The only thing that caused her embarrassment, however, was the surprisingly glowing terms in which he described her attack on the man he’d sicced her on. “That should be all, Detective Inspector. Now, I have a fiancée whose nerves I must soothe, and a friend,” he raised an eyebrow at John, “who needs to get a faster cab.”

“Ha, ha,” John said as Sherlock wrapped a seemingly protective arm around her, “I don’t have the power to summon cabs as quickly as you.”

“Nobody does,” Lestrade said sourly, still writing in his notebook, “that’s why we have police cars.”

“And yet you nearly let a criminal go free,” Sherlock said, “Lestrade, give Molly your number so she doesn’t have to ring the wrong people.” After exchanging numbers, and Sherlock promising for Molly that she’d come in to the Yard to give her statement the next morning, Sherlock led his small team to the cab stand. Then he sighed. “Strange you don’t have the inclination towards violence in general,” he said in a conversational tone, “what with your profession and your natural strength.”

“I work on dead bodies, I don’t make them,” she gasped, but couldn’t help cracking a smile when John did. If she had to have another brother, she’d rather it be someone like John. “Getting into fights is what you boys enjoy doing. I don’t enjoy going home to take a couple of paracetamol and icing up.” Already, her right arm was starting to kill her, and her neck may soon be following. Then her eyes widened. “Sherlock, how are you feeling?”

“Like hell,” he said flatly, and now that she saw him under the light of the fluorescent streetlamp, he did look a bit worse for wear. But he still raised his arm high, and he still managed to catch a cab right then and there. As they piled into the back seat, he told the cabbie, “My friend will pay you extra if you don’t hit the bumps.”

“Anything for a friend,” John rolled his eyes, but did what he was told.

Both he and Molly were surprised when Sherlock ordered him out first, however. “You’ve got a wife to satisfy after jumping out of bed,” Sherlock said, “and I need to tend to my wounds quickly. Good night.”

So it was to Molly’s consternation that she was the one to care for Sherlock’s wounds in his bathroom, which were rather considerable, and unfortunately for her sense of modesty, not all above the waist. _He_ is _trying to kill me,_ she thought, _and doing a good job of it, too._ But she kept it as impartial as possible, telling herself over and over that it was just a body, like a dead body with underwear on, and for the most part, it worked. She kept her eyes down, or at least away from unnecessary areas, like his cold, analytical eyes.


	38. Chapter 38

The adrenaline high hadn’t come down yet, and Sherlock hadn’t eaten much at dinner, in spite of the highly-touted cuisine at the restaurant. “Molly, order us some takeaway,” he said when she finished wrapping up the last of the wounds. “I believe there’s a Chinese restaurant brochure on the fridge.”

Still not looking at his face, she handed him his jacket. “If you’re like most men, you have them on speed dial.”

He scowled as she went to the kitchen to feed her cat, but pulled out his mobile from an inside pocket. No, it wasn’t on speed dial, but it was in there. He ordered a chicken stir fry, then smirked at the cat, and asked for extra spice. The cat, for some reason, felt it behooved him to shed all over everything Sherlock left out, including his Belstaff coat, and if that bloody cat thought he could get one over on Sherlock Holmes –

“Sherlock, I’ll just – ohmygod,” Molly quickly averted her eyes, as if she’d forgotten she’d left him there with only his underpants on. “I’ll be upstairs if you need me, good night!” And she fairly flew up the stairs and locked the bedroom door behind her, like the modest maid he knows her to be.

Yes, she could be fun to play with, but he had work to do. He smirked, then dropped the expression. The pain was starting to surface, and, after grabbing his dressing gown from the hook, he forced himself to move from the bathroom to the bedroom, where his laptop was. He’d already gotten into her laptop when she was being huffy earlier, but now he needed to know what he knew then, that is, retrieve the online memories of the Sherlock Holmes of the past five years.

He pulled up his website and was disconcerted to find that his entries were sporadic at best, and that his last one was dated over a year ago, being the study of different types of asphalt in the greater London area. He pouted, then looked up John Watson’s blog. It was a common name, but not so common when paired with other words like “doctor” and “Afghanistan”. Molly was right, it was descriptive in a prosaic fashion, and John’s admiration for his work did shine, clumsy though it may be. And, to his surprise, the comments it engendered spoke not just of the growing friendship he, no, the other Sherlock, had with John, but with a small but dedicated community.

Odd.

He’d never seen himself as part of a community, let alone forming a friendship in his adult life. But the almost-casual way John wrote about how he and the other Sherlock worked together, lived life, even having fun, that was, well, astonishing. He’d never had a flatmate that lasted longer than a month, previously. Having one that not only lasted about five years and continued to remain his friend, even after being… incapacitated to a degree, he couldn’t understand that. Nobody would be that loyal to him, not even if he paid them. He frowned again, skimming through the comments section, then opening another window and typing in John and Mary’s names in the search box. He was certain that some enterprising soul would post videos of their wedding, if John and the other Sherlock had indeed become, as the blog entries partway through the first year suggested, internet celebrities.

And then he clicked on a video by a Jsowersby with the dull title “John + Mary’s Wedding!” He watched the badly-shot and badly-edited clip of the ceremony, the blonde man still holding himself with military posture but obviously full of joy, and the bottle-blonde woman, her expressive face unable to keep the happiness from bursting. It almost hurt to look at these people, people he was supposed to know deeply, aside from the inferences he can read like plain print on their faces and clothes. There was still-unhappily married Lestrade, giving Mary away (so her parents were deceased, like John’s), and there was a woman slightly older than John, her features, if not her hair color, close enough for her to be the sibling in the blog. So, Harry Watson was a woman, if not very attractive, struggling alcoholic, divorced, no new girlfriend, and optimistic enough about the proceedings to look for both a new girl and some alcohol. There were some other men in the video he didn’t recognize, but from their bearing and easy banter with John, friends from the medical branch of the army, and – was that Stamford? Good heavens. It was a small world. How very odd. Somehow, the man he’d badgered to use his lab at St. Bart’s was there. Then again, Molly worked at St. Bart’s as well, so he supposed that’s how he knew her, from Stamford. Judging from the blog and from the show of force from the police force, both John and Sherlock remained on the right side of the law (but only just, Sherlock noted, reading between the lines from the blog entries). Apparently, as the other Sherlock served as the best man, Mrs. Hudson was the matron of honor.

John and Mary went through their vows easily enough, although Mary looked like she was between laughing and crying at times. The landlady handed the bride a handkerchief, which she took gratefully, and laughed as she wiped at her eyes. The video cut to the reception, the usual boring shots of the wedding cake and all, and Mrs. Hudson made a brief speech. “I always thought John and Sherlock would be growing old together under my roof at Baker Street,” she said, her voice a little shaky, “but I’m so glad that the reason he’s left is because we’ve got Mary with us. She’s a joy, an absolute joy, and John Watson is a very lucky man.” Then she winked at the groom. “And if he knows what’s good for him, he’d get luckier still and make me a proud grandmother.”

There was laughter with applause as John covered his face and Mary cackled, and Sherlock’s eyes narrowed to see himself stand up. As expected, his voice carried much better than Mrs. Hudson’s, even without a microphone, which meant the amateur videographer almost blew out what sound equipment he had. He smirked as he watched himself say, “At first, I didn’t trust Mary’s intentions. Yes, any idiot could see that John and Mary had gotten close due to the nature of the case, but then, John can be charming when he puts his mind to it.” There were some hoots from the military table, and the other Sherlock went on, “We’d just solved a case for her, but she continued to go on dates with John, texted him, had long, tedious, I mean, romantic conversations with him.” The other Sherlock smirked, and John rolled his eyes. “She stayed on, in spite of the mad hours, having to patch up her boyfriend and his odd friend, and the occasional death threat. It doesn’t take a consulting detective to know that his best friend,” and John’s eyebrows rose slightly, but he smiled, “was mad about the new girl, and the new girl wouldn’t be ‘the new girl’ for much longer, but ‘the only girl’. So,” he raised his glass of, what, peach juice, apricot juice, God, that video quality is wretched, “to John Watson, and Mary Morstan Watson. May they continue to be happy together.” Then the other Sherlock’s tone and countenance darkened. “And if anyone tries to harm them, I will hunt them down, and--”

He was stopped when John’s hand gripped his arm. “All right, that’s enough,” the blonde man stood up and raised his glass, then cocked an eyebrow at the other Sherlock, slightly smiling.

And this rather emotional version of himself merely blinked, then smiled. Actually smiled back, and said, “Cheers!”

“Cheers!” the crowd responded, and downed whatever odd fruit juice it was.

There was the usual post-wedding rituals to be followed, but Sherlock continued to frown as he puzzled out how different he actually became. Was it possible that just by living with this short little man, with the mothering landlady, and working with various members of the law and medicine that he became, not entirely human, but closer to the normal spectrum of emotions and behavior than he thought himself capable of? If Mummy had even seen this video, if Mycroft hadn’t already gathered tons of CCTV footage to show her, no wonder she thought the other Sherlock had a chance at a somewhat normal life! It was gratifying to note that the other Sherlock was still in the habit of deducing people while waiting in line, but his comments were less acidic than expected. “You were holding back,” Sherlock frowned deeper. “Why?”

He decided to put that on the side for now, and search something else. Even though he knew it would be next to useless, he looked up cures for amnesia, hoping perhaps in the intervening years, there might be something. What he got were mostly ridiculous plot lines from soap operas, dreadfully few actual medical studies, and mostly people resigned to living out their dull, boring lives using coping mechanisms that he already has in place, his mental faculties otherwise undamaged by the incident. A paltry few actually regained their memories, but then, it seemed their world had changed less than his had.

He exhaled, then put the laptop on the side and lay back, steepling his hands under his chin. It was both mortifying and disorienting to see the other version of himself not just showing some genuine emotion here and there, but expressing concern for someone outside of himself. Lestrade was the only one he could come close to harboring some grudging respect, but that was only through work, not anything personal. And yet, he’d somehow built a personal relationship with the DI to the point where they’d both been part of someone else’s wedding party. Thankfully, he wasn’t quite normal to the acceptable standards, but it appeared he was getting closer than anyone, including him, had expected, and it was like looking at himself in a funhouse mirror. People thought the reflection was him, when it was really not.

“Or maybe I’m the reflection of years past,” he murmured, “and the other Sherlock is the real one.” But it didn’t feel any more real, any more true, to think that he himself would be toasting John Watson’s wedding, any more than it would be to marry Molly Hooper or Irene Adler. As usual, he’s missing something from Mummy’s plans, and what’s made it worse is that Mycroft is helping her. The last time that happened was when they threw him into rehab. The person that made him stay, however, was Lestrade, someone nobody was expecting him to listen to.

Is that why the other Sherlock chose Molly Hooper? Because she’s someone nobody was expecting? No, because from her statements and expressions, it seems not even Sherlock, past or present, knew why, in spite of his so-called reasons. The doorbell rang, interrupting his ruminations, and he closed the robe around before retrieving his wallet. The food smelled heavenly on his empty stomach and draining adrenaline, and he paid the delivery girl quickly before shutting the door in her face, already starting in on the noodles. As he made his way up, he had an odd sense that he’d done this before, here, eating takeaway. He paused. No, something’s not right. He’s missing something. He looked at the pale textured wallpaper. He and John must have done this after cases from time to time, get so hungry that they tear into their food without waiting to sit down, conjecture being what it is.

As he sat down in his chair, noodles in his mouth, a sudden wave of loneliness hit him. It wasn’t the usual sort of loneliness. No, it was missing… someone. Why would he miss anyone? It was ludicrous. And yet, here he was, tears falling from his eyes, and completely bewildered. He never cried, unless it was on purpose. He wiped at his eyes, staring down at his wet fingers as if it would tell him something, a physical clue to the dreadfully psychological mystery that was his locked mind.


	39. Chapter 39

Seeing Sherlock sitting there, staring at his hand, tears pouring down for no reason, made Molly worry. “Do you remember?” she asks softly

He looked startled as he looked up, well, as startled as he did when he asked himself that question. Instead of answering, he merely shrugged, sniffled, and continued to eat his chicken stir fry.

Brother. “Well, I was going to make some tea,” she said, and went into the kitchen to do just that. Toby insisted that she pay attention to him, and, feeling a little guilty that she didn’t play with him as often as she used to, she pulled out a wand with feathers and a bell at the end, waving it in front of her furry little boy. Her spotted white cat gamely pawed at it a couple of times, but then went back to rubbing against her legs. “Oh, Toby,” she sighed, picking him up and snuggling him. People said cats were hard to understand, but Toby made a lot more sense than Sherlock did on even his most clear-cut days.

When she returned to the living room, it was with Toby on her right shoulder, and she carried a tea tray with two cups of tea on it. Sherlock, mostly done with his takeaway, and his tears vanished, made a face. “You are not getting cat hair in my tea,” he said, his slightly reddened nose the only evidence that he’d even shed a tear.

Molly would shake her head, but that would dislodge Toby. Instead, she put the tray on the little coffee table between them and took her cup and saucer. “Toby’s a good boy,” she said, and Toby obligingly purred as she stroked his soft, furry body.

“Good boys don’t shed all over costly coats,” Sherlock retorted. He stared briefly at the tea before taking his cup and saucer.

“Bright boys don’t try attacking a roomful of criminals by themselves,” Molly retorted, then sighed. “Do you need more pills?”

He shook his head, then sipped. “I’ve had worse.”

She couldn’t help it, she started to hope that his memory was coming back. “So you do remember?”

“No, not really,” he said flatly, which rapidly deflated her hopes. “I was reading John’s blog. It’s hard to believe the other Sherlock didn’t lock down the comments section after the first handful of cases.”

Molly blinked. The “other Sherlock”? How bizarre. Then again, living in a world where strangers remember you and care for you must be bizarre for him. “It’s like living in an alternate universe, isn’t it?” she asked.

“What?” he frowned.

Remembering in time not to apologize, she quickly explained, “When you said ‘the other Sherlock’. It reminded me of those science fiction books I used to read, where people would find other versions of themselves in alternate worlds.”

“I’m sure that must be very fascinating for you,” he said, “but this is my life, not a fairy tale. And it has _changed,_ with more people in it that expect me to be someone else!” He threw the empty tea cup at the floor, where it shattered.

Molly stared at the mess. Yes, she had expected him to bounce back quickly, like he did after that post-honeymoon case, to recover his memories and move on. But it seems there are some things even Sherlock Holmes cannot do by sheer force of will. It was apparent that even he expected his memories to be jogged by reading about his life online, but that it didn’t come to him in a flood like his deductions do must be maddening for an impatient man like himself. “Yes, it has changed,” she finally said, looking at him sulk in the chair, his knees pulled up to his chin. “For the better. I think that would be frustrating, too.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Oh, you think? You actually do think?” he said cuttingly. “Well, it’s refreshing to hear someone around me can actually use their minds once in a while for something other than occupying a cat or making tea.”

“You can make fun of me all you want,” she said, proud that her voice only trembled a little. “But right now, you are living in an alternate universe, having to relearn just how different everything is. You’re a quick study, but you also rely on experience, and unless you remember everything, that’s hard to replace. Relearn London, Sherlock. Not your friends, the city. She’s changed, too, and she needs someone who remembers her, who helped her then and will help her now.”

“Is that from your science fiction books, too?” he raised an eyebrow at her.

“No,” she said, then finished her tea. “It’s from a friend who’s worried about you.” She carried her things back to the kitchen, then came out with a dust pan and broom. “Good night.”

“Aren’t you going to clean it up?” he asked as she went to the stairs, Toby still on her shoulder.

Her smile came and went. “I’m your flatmate, not your housekeeper,” she said, and went upstairs. If he wants to have a bloody existential crisis again, he knows where the tools to clean up after himself are. As long as he doesn’t hurt or kill himself (or others), they should be just fine, memory loss or no.

And with that thought, she undid her hair from its ponytail, yawned, and got under the covers. Toby made himself at home, and soon, his purrs lulled her to sleep.


	40. Chapter 40

Molly felt like her world had gone completely and truly mad. Sherlock’s the one who was amnesiac, but he went “back to work”, as it were, on a case that required his insight just days after their disastrous date, and he and John fell into an uneasy partnership. John had told her it was “weird, really” to have Sherlock doing what he normally did, but without telegraphing or catching their usual nonverbal communication. They solved the case, of course, but John said that if it felt a little wrong-footed for him, then it must be driving Sherlock a bit mad. But he seemed rather relieved to be doing something productive and relearning his city on the job, so to speak, and, as she thought, he was a quick study. There was no indication to the general public that Sherlock Holmes had lost five years of his memory.

She, on the other hand, feels like she’s Alice in Wonderland, but was driven there of her own choice. The rabbit hole being Sherlock’s mother’s birthday dinner at her sizeable estate, pretending to be the dutiful fiancée she was touted to be, and preparing herself of another round of vindictive excoriations and snide torture sessions. Instead, she finds that they’re at some kind of high-society soiree for Sherlock’s mother’s birthday. Sherlock had actually gone shopping with her for this event, which should have warned her about the kind of party this was going to be. She just thought this version was a little more realistic when it came to his mother’s expectations. Still, she felt a little underdressed compared to the celebrities and political mucky-mucks milling about, trying to obey Sherlock’s instructions when it was a bit difficult.

“You are one of the few who actually deserve to be here,” he’d told her as they pulled up in the cab, behind several limousines being chauffeured out of the parkway. “Act like it.”

Her Cinderella feeling, being dressed to the nines in a flowy peach dress with delicate-looking sandals, her hair and makeup done by professionals, evaporated as soon as he left her side, and all she could see and hear were the actual rich and famous (and more than a few infamous). She found herself falling back to her old habits when going to large events where she knew nobody: find the snack table and stay there until the ride/friend/whoever showed up to take her back home. Unfortunately, she couldn’t find any table, but rather just waiters carrying trays of food and drink, none of whom seemed to notice her attempting to reach for a glass or petit fours.

“You really shouldn’t try,” a voice purred in her ear, “you can’t afford to gain any more weight than you have.”

Molly dropped her hand and spun around, her eyes widening to see that, yes, Irene Adler was there, too. Drat. “What are you doing here?” she asked, even if she had a thousand different thoughts on why it was so.

The other woman smirked with her red, red lips, looking down on her in her pricey heels. A hand on her hip, she said, “I’m here for Mrs. Holmes’ birthday as Sherlock’s real fiancée, not a pretender.”

The words stung like a slap, even though Molly was expecting something like it. It didn’t mean it didn’t hurt any less. Molly blinked back tears as she said, “Excuse me,” and tried to find the ladies’ room. She didn’t care if she never saw Mrs. Holmes that evening, she was going to go home, since she still had her Oyster card in her purse.

Instead, she found herself lost, wandering through the mansion. “Oh dear,” she said, unable to stop the tears. It felt like the halls and rooms went on forever, and there wasn’t even a hint of the outside world, much less the women’s room. “I just want to go home!”

“Join the party,” Sherlock’s voice echoed sardonically.

Molly sniffled. “Where are you?” she asked, half-fearfully and half-frustrated.

“In here,” a hand beckoned from a door to the left.

Molly raced towards it, and grabbed onto Sherlock’s dinner jacket. “How could you leave me alone?” she cried. “Irene Adler was out there!”

“So is my mother,” Sherlock said blandly, and now she saw as well as smelled the cigarette in his hand. “While you provided a tempting target by yourself, she would have been compelled by the guests to keep a civil distance from you.”

“Irene had no such restrictions,” Molly said bitterly, turning away. She really didn’t like cigarettes. “She pounced on me as soon as she could.”

“Mm, yes, I can smell her on you,” he said, and she turned to see him making a face.

“How?” Molly frowned. “I can barely smell anything past that nasty cigarette.”

He blinked, then put it out. “I have a good sense of smell,” he shrugged, then wandered down the room.

Which, she now saw, was ridiculously huge and filled with books. “Oh my God,” she breathed. “This is incredible.”

“Isn’t it?” he said, oddly pleased, for some reason.

Her eyes skimmed the book titles, and found that at least a third of them weren’t in English. “How many of them have you read?” she wondered.

“Most, not all of them,” he admitted. “A few were Mycroft’s textbooks, but when those got too political, I got bored and left those alone.”

She giggled, then pulled out a book on flowers. “Did you read this?” she asked.

“Of course,” he sniffed, “only saved information on the deadly species. The rest, I deleted.”

“Of course,” she murmured, flipping through it. She’d had a class on botany and poisons as well, but needed to look up specifics should unusual pollen show up on bodies. “I like dandelions,” she said, “even though they’re weeds. They’re still pretty, whether they have petals or puffs.”

His eyes narrowed, as if saying, Of course you would. She didn’t care. They were her favorite flower because they looked joyful no matter where she found them. And they were quite useful, too.

“What did you like to read?” she asked.

His long fingers were already traveling along the spines of various books. “Anything I could get my hands on,” he said, “which started a habit of scaling whatever heights I could to reach the highest book I could see.”

The gleeful look on his face boded no good news. “How old were you?” she asked, suspicious.

“Four,” he answered, “I was light enough to climb the shelves when I reached the end of the ladder.”

“You must’ve given your poor mum a heart attack,” Molly shook her head, but she was smiling.

“Almost did, but the nanny got there first,” Sherlock said, as if disappointed with the efficiency of the help. Brat. “Come here,” he said, staring through a window.

Curious, Molly joined him. The window overlooked the party on the grounds, and she could almost hear the babbling coming through the glass. “Did you always come up here during parties?” she asked.

He slid his pale eyes to her dark ones, then he stared back through the glass. “After the first one, yes.”

If they were all like this, it must’ve been boring for him as a child. Parties for adults were bad enough with the usual amount of drinks and “kissing up”, but if there were no other children, it would’ve been dead boring. “And how long before you had to go back to attending them?” she smiled.

He glanced back only long enough to glare at her. “Shut up.”

The noise suddenly died down, and they could see, if not really hear, Mycroft speaking. Sherlock suddenly pulled her away from the window, and she gasped. “He can’t see us from here,” she said.

“I wouldn’t put it past his spies,” he glowered, “come on.”

And he dragged her out of the nice, quiet library, down the hallway, and pushed her into a room. “I believe you were looking for the ladies’ room?” he said.

She blinked. “Um, yes, thank you.” And she walked into a veritable showroom for baths as she flipped on the light switch, sighed, and locked the door behind her. As soon as she finished her business, she went back out and was promptly dragged down three hallways, turning in a pattern she couldn’t quite explain but it was familiar somehow, and they ended up outside, but in the back yard. “Why are we here?” she asked.


	41. Chapter 41

“I can smoke out here,” Sherlock answered, rolling his eyes as he lit his cigarette.

“What about your mother?” Molly asked.

“What about her?”

“Have you wished her a happy birthday yet?” He stared at her, and she stared back, then the look dissolved into disbelief. “We came all the way out here, why?”

He shrugged. “To show you off.”

She frowned. “What?”

He sat on the concrete patio, absently pulling at weeds. “You don’t really think my mother invited you here out of the kindness of her heart, did you?”

She stared at him again. “So why did she invite me?”

He shrugged again, sticking the cigarette in his mouth as he pulled at more weeds. “Any number of reasons, none of them good. To show what a country mouse you were. To compare you to Adler or any number of women here. To not-too-subtly draw class lines. To show you don’t belong.”

“She would be right on all of them,” Molly said soberly, plopping down to sit beside him.

“Hm,” he said. “Wrong.”

“No,” she said slowly, “I’m not. And why did you leave me alone as soon as we got here?”

Sherlock looked away. “You know how I am,” he said uncomfortably. “I can’t be around people like this, not for long. I would’ve ruined everything.”

“This was your home,” she said, “you fit in here already.”

“No, I don’t!” he snapped at her. “Don’t you see? I don’t fit in anywhere!” To his consternation, she started to cry. “Don’t, don’t,” he said, then pulled out a handkerchief and carefully dabbed at her face so her makeup wouldn’t be ruined. He knows he’s supposed to be doing something, oh. He patted her shoulder awkwardly, pulling his lips into his mouth, unsure he was doing it right. He wasn’t good at things like this.

She looked up and smiled, but it was still full of tears. “Thank you,” she sniffled.

He wiped off the last of the dampness. “Lift up your chin,” he instructed. She blinked, but did as he said. He twisted some of the weeds together and wove it into the braided crown of her hair. “There,” he said.

She started to reach up. “What did you--?”

He stopped both the action and the question. “Taraxacum officinale,” he said. “It suits you.”

She smiled a little, a real smile. “The first time you told me that, about my hair tied to the side, it was to get to the bodies of two smugglers of Chinese goods,” she said.

“I did?”

She nodded, but didn’t dislodge the flowers. “I knew it, but I still let you in the morgue. I knew you were working on a case, seeing another detective inspector said as much, but I still let you in. I thought it was nice of you to flirt with me, because usually you just demanded and I just said yes. It must have been important enough for you to even bother.”

Sherlock blinked. “Oh, what John called ‘The Blind Banker’ case,” he said. “He really should go in for less fanciful titles. He wants to call the recent case ‘The Man with the Twisted Hip’. I told him that would give away the puzzle, but he doesn’t want to call it ‘Beggars Can’t Be Choosers’, saying something about PC police and all that. Who are the PC police?”

Her mouth twisted up into a smile. “Nobody you’d worry about,” she said. Didn’t think so. “Can we just wish your mother a quick happy birthday and go home?”

“Fine,” he pouted, but that was pretty much his plan. Well, the plan he’d been putting off most of the night, but might as well get it over with. He knows if he stays too long at the party, he’ll have inadvertently caused another small skirmish in a tiny country or other, knowing Mummy and Mycroft’s guests. He stood up, brushed off his trousers, and held out his hand. When she put her hand in his, he pulled her up quite easily. He knows it’s possible for this slight woman to have taken down Lawrence “Tiny” Hardinger, he just wished he hadn’t missed seeing the elbow drop.

As they reach the edges of the party, there are some polite greetings, most of them from people who don’t even know he’s related to the birthday celebrant. The closer they get to the center, however, the more pointed the looks, especially at Molly Hooper, and the more almost-hushed whispers. Molly clings tighter and tighter to his arm, until he thinks she’s about to cut off his circulation. When they reach his mother, he nods his head. “Happy birthday, Mummy,” he says, ignoring Mycroft schmoozing some international types to the right and the Adler woman not far from Molly’s elbow, and official and unofficial paparazzi. With his free hand, he holds his mother’s hand in his and kisses it politely.

“Happy birthday, Mrs. Holmes,” Molly says quietly.

“What is wrong with you?” Adler ignores even more social cues than he does, stepping between Molly and his mother. “You’ve got weeds and bugs in your hair.” There is a smattering of impolite laughter, along with more bulbs flashing. She reached out to pull at it, when Sherlock grabbed her hand.

“You are the weed,” he said cuttingly, tossing her hand to the side, “believe me when I say this is the real flower.” By the look on her face, she looked angry enough to slap him, but was wise enough not to do it in front of his mother, whom she was still trying to win. The fact that she had to try spoke volumes at this point, and Sherlock pulled the shocked Molly out of there and hailed a cab in record time.

They didn’t speak for a while, which suited Sherlock. Then Molly, whose jumbled thoughts practically raced across her face, finally spoke up. “What did you mean, I was the real flower?” Molly said.

“What I said,” he said, leaning against the window. In the glass, he could see both Molly’s reflection and London passing by.

For some reason, that made Molly really happy, if the sudden bright smile was anything to go by. “Even though you didn’t mean it, thank you,” she said, and quickly kissed him on the cheek.

She turned to look out her window, still smiling, but for some reason, as he stared at her, he felt confused and unhappy, for no reason he could discern.


	42. Chapter 42

Molly Hooper wasn’t the kind of girl to be in the tabloids, so when her mum called, she just assumed that it was about Billy again. Instead, she heard, “Oh, you lucky girl! No wonder you don’t want to come home, you’ve found yourself a gold mine!”

Molly frowned, then looked at the ID on the mobile. It read “Mum”, but the words sounded wrong. Worried, she typed in her name in the search engine on the work computer. What it pulled up horrified her. Things like “Flower Girl Wins ‘Net Detective” and “New Heiress to Holmes Fortune?” came up, along with “She Doesn’t Look Like a Gold Digger, Does She?” She sighed heavily, the fruits of actually going to Mrs. Holmes birthday party now hitting home. She supposed it never occurred to Sherlock that an invasion of her privacy was a bad thing, since he did that on a regular basis, and he made his living off being a public private, no, consulting detective. If she’d known her reputation would be smeared all over the tabloids, she would’ve stayed home, paid makeover or not. “Mum, it’s not a gold mine, I’m engaged to a private detective.”

“Who’s the son of one of the wealthiest socialites!” her mother crowed. “Oh, Molly, you did good, girl!”

She wanted to hit her head on the counter, but since she was at work, the desktop wasn’t laminate wood like at home, but three-inch metal, which wasn’t very forgiving. “Mum, I’m still going to be working at the morgue, and Sherlock will still be doing consulting work. We won’t be getting anything from Mrs. Holmes.” She may not be sure of many things, but she’s dead certain of the last part.

Her mum, as usual, seems to be having a different conversation altogether. “You looked so pretty,” she gushed, “why didn’t you tell me you were going to Violetta Holmes’ party?”

 _Because I wasn’t even sure I’d be going,_ Molly bites her lip. “Thanks, Mum, but I’m at work,” she says gently. “Keep Billy out of trouble, won’t you?”

Her mother’s still going on about the party when Molly hangs up. Then she’s ambushed by Meena and the girls. She knows she shouldn’t call them that, but as most of them are secretaries, and a revolving-door crew at that, she can’t keep all of their names straight. “Molly, you scandalicious thing, you!” her friend cried. “Why did I have to find out about things in the tabloids and online before you tell me?”

Molly blushed. “I’m sorry,” she said sincerely. Why won’t this farce be over soon? She hates to lie to people, especially nice people like Meena. “I didn’t think I’d be going.”

“Was that a new outfit?” one of the girls asked. “And were the flowers your idea?”

Molly’s eyes skittered about, as if looking for the nearest exit, but she was hemmed in by girls. She should be able to answer these things, as they are her friends, as opposed to the faceless paparazzi. “Um, yes,” she said, “and no. Both of them came from Sherlock.”

Meena smirked, then hooked an arm around the shorter girl. “I swear, if he wasn’t engaged to you, he’d be mistaken for a gay fashion designer,” the golden brown woman said. “Until he opened his mouth, that is,” she added. “So, give us the dirty details. Did you meet anyone famous? Aside from Mummy Dearest, that is.”

Oh boy. “Um, I didn’t really talk to anyone,” she blushed further, garnering some disappointed looks. “Me and Sherlock were mostly in the library, it was nice and quiet in there, and--”

“That’s so cute!” one of the girls gushed. “So you wanted to spend some alone time with him?” Her smile became knowing. “Without the paparazzi taking piccies?”

 _That’s not quite what happened,_ Molly thinks desperately, wanting to sink into the floor. “Um,” and she could swear her whole body was on fire with blushing.

“Look at her, blushing up a storm,” Meena chuckled good-naturedly. “No wonder Sherlock loves her. He doesn’t have to guess what she’s feeling!”

 _He never guesses, he_ knows, Molly flails literally. “Meena!” she wailed.

“Sorry, love, you’re just too cute,” she said, and winked at the secretaries, who continued to gush about her luck like her mum did not too long ago. Then her demeanor became more serious. “Actually, the reason why we’re here is because there’s a ton of paparazzi outside, and they’ve been bugging the staff about you.”

“Oh God, I’m so sorry!” Molly looked at them. “I didn’t know you all--!”

“Oh, it’s fine,” one of the younger girls, Tracy or Stacy, smiled. “I like having my picture taken. And I didn’t know too much, anyways, aside from what’s out there already.”

“You are a dear,” Molly impulsively hugged her.

Stacy or Tracy giggled. “You’re funny for a lab girl.”

Molly wrinkled her nose, but laughed anyways. “Will you be able to run interference while I work, or will I have to change my hours?”

“Don’t change them,” Meena said sternly. “That way, there’s more of us to take care of them,” and she made a face on the last word. “I’ll cover for you when you come in and need to leave, and the other girls will distract them. Some of them are better than others,” and one of the girls ducked her head. “It’ll be fine, Mols.” She hugged her one-armed, and Molly leaned against her gratefully.

“You’re all so incredibly sweet,” she said gratefully. “I can’t believe how much I’ll owe you all!”

“Don’t worry about it,” Meena said blithely, “just don’t forget to invite us to your wedding.”

And Molly felt a hundred times guilty now. They were all risking their jobs protecting Molly, who was covering for Sherlock, who felt he needed to prove a point to his obviously-insane mother. God, this was madness! But if and when she’d ever actually marry, she’d definitely invite Meena, who more than deserved it. “Only if you invite me to yours and Tom’s,” she smiled.

The darker woman laughed. “Are you saying you’re going to drag this out into one of those ten-year engagements!” she said. “I don’t think I could stand it!”

 _Neither could I,_ Molly thought. “Only if we don’t kill each other first,” she said, heartfelt. The month couldn’t be over soon enough.


	43. Chapter 43

Sherlock saw the tabloids before Molly did, so he redirected her morning route to avoid most of the newsstands. He knew it was only a matter of time before her well-meaning but ill-proceeding co-workers would apprise her of her (and Sherlock’s) appearance in the tabloids. He didn’t mind it himself, but had forgotten that Mummy and Mycroft combined were at least five steps ahead of him when it came to consequences. Now that he wasn’t actively on a case, and London was becoming familiar again, he decided to be proactive in this game.

Thankfully, his other self kept notes on this whole affianced fiasco, albeit on his own laptop rather than Molly’s. It was a relief to know his other self didn’t quite trust her entirely, but that raised other questions he figured could be dealt with later. He spotted the model-turning-barrister outside a coffeeshop that couldn’t quite be called a café. It wasn’t hard, as Godfrey Norton was handsome enough for women to take a second look, and vain enough to groom and dress up for them to do so. Norton looked like an earnest college student, what with the books, coffee, and chain-smoking, but the oh-so-casual pose and his eyes lighting up whenever women passed by let Sherlock know it was less a study session and more of a fishing expedition. This was the laziest form of hunting he’d seen, but it was well-practiced.

Sherlock made his move before a petite female could. “George!” he called out, summoning every bit of his boarding school education and what he’s seen of the “chummy social club” type that he could. Norton’s eyes slid from the small blonde girl to him, and the consulting detective almost smirked at the other man’s perception taking in the seemingly wealthy vibe he exuded. It probably didn’t hurt that his face was splashed on every front page of the daily rags, either.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes,” Norton waved him over, “sit down, sit down.”

Sherlock smiled briskly, if a bit familiarly as he did so. “So, how are the studies coming along?” he inquired, his voice hearty rather than polite.

Norton made a face, although he was careful not to twist it too hard. “I’ve just got a heavy course load this week. It’s not bad, though.”

“I hear you’re with the Inner Temple,” Sherlock said.

The younger man nodded. “It’s amazing how well-connected they are. But you knew that already, didn’t you?”

Sherlock kept his face pleasant enough, although the fact that Mycroft had his hand in practically every aspect of regulation and observation in Britain, from beginning to end, chafed him to no end. He wouldn’t put it past the fat bastard to have screened Norton into this particular Inn, and picked up on his connection to Irene Adler. Granted, the connection would be very slim, unless one was a devoted fan of either Norton or Adler, but Sherlock doubted anyone outside of his own family would’ve realized the secret affair, as it were. Norton is certainly portraying himself as a free man, as opposed to his would-be love. “I’ve had a couple of run-ins with a barrister or two from that Inn,” is all he says.

Norton chuckled. It was disturbing to see how similar women and men from his particular circle behaved, seemingly friendly, flirty, even, while attempting to read those around them and use what tricks they have in their pitifully limited arsenal to take down their prey. “Should you need the services of a solicitor affiliated with our Inn to take care of your tabloid problems, I’ve got a few suggestions.”

“I’m sure you do,” Sherlock smiled the same smile back at him. “I’ve got a couple of questions of my own. For example, are you always in the business of pimping out your girlfriend, or is that just a side benefit from living off of others?”

“What?” Norton’s pleasant demeanor drops like a stone in water. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed slightly, then he leaned in, his face likewise reverting to its usual cold mask. “No, you do. You believe you have an open relationship with Irene Adler, and that, thanks to your studies with the Inner Temple, you’ll find at least two or three more loopholes than the one you have already.” He smirked. “It’s sweet, how you’re already playing the part of the mistress and she hasn’t even married anyone rich yet. I do hope you’re telling her to whore herself out to others, because going after me is already draining both your wallets.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the smoker before him lied easily. Easily, but not well, for his clothes were about six years old, still relatively in style and well-kept, but the man hadn’t had what was crudely termed a “sugar mama” in ages, Irene being the current one, and even she’s scraping the bottom in her fashion. It’s obvious to him that this diet of coffee and cigarettes is not a new thing, but a staple at least every other day, judging by the gauntness of his face compared to his previous photos, the darkening caffeine stains on his teeth and nicotine stains on his fingertips. The phrase “starving college student” has become a reality for this man, and although he has been used to strained diets before from his previous job, his body, unlike Sherlock’s, will rebel within a month to the abuse and strain being put upon it.

“Of course you don’t, but you’re not a complete idiot, even if you were a former model, you’re just a well-connected idiot.” Like everyone he’s told that to, the man had the audacity to look affronted, even though Sherlock was only telling him the truth. “There are a number of flaws in your so-called perfect plan,” he smiled unpleasantly. “One, thanks to my brush with addictive substances, any money that goes out to me and mine is screened carefully as to the destination. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been denied access myself because they thought I’d relapse or some such nonsense, so you can imagine how much tighter they’ll screen a woman I have suspicions of cheating on me. Two, there’s no way she’s getting her hands on any Holmes money in any case, because I’m marrying someone else. Obvious. Three, you won’t be staying together for much longer anyway because I know something you don’t.”

“Sherlock Holmes, you may know a lot of things I don’t,” Norton said evenly. “And like I said, she’s not my girlfriend.”

“Really?” Sherlock drawled, leaning back, his arm casually resting on the table’s edge. “Then why don’t you ask whose baby she is carrying?”

“What?” Norton stared at him.

Sherlock couldn’t help it, he positively sneered in the man’s face. “Don’t worry, she doesn’t know it, either. Remind her the next time she goes out that alcohol’s bad for the baby.” He stood up, sweeping his coat around him. “Pleasure talking with you,” he slipped the mask of wealthy civility back on, “good seeing you, Godfrey.”

Hearing his actual name in public made the model-cum-college-student pale, but rather than bolting, the younger man sank in his seat, his forgotten cigarette dropping from his fingers.

Sherlock smirked, then swept out of there. He hated being around leeches, they made his skin crawl with their desperation and idiocy. He wondered why the other Sherlock hadn’t confronted him earlier…

And then he recalled the case in which he was run over by a car. Lestrade said they hadn’t come up with anything new since he left the hospital, and the hacker hadn’t made a reappearance yet. It was as if injuring Sherlock was enough.

Why was that? Time to find out.


	44. Chapter 44

It was a bit ridiculous, Molly thought as she rode the bus home, being smuggled out of one’s workplace like she was someone famous for the third day in a row. For the time being, she was, she supposed, but only because of Sherlock’s mother, but the paparazzi was never known for their perspicacity. She couldn’t wait until someone else replaced her in the papers.

In the meantime, Sherlock had been sneaking around, er, working on another case, for which she was deeply thankful. She wasn’t sure she could take anything else being shattered, although she wasn’t sure about Sherlock’s psyche. He seemed to do fairly well in this somewhat-brave new world, aside from the occasional misstep with their friends, like Mrs. Hudson. He didn’t remember shooting the holes in the wall, but the evidence was there, so he couldn’t deny that, even if he forgot it. Less obvious things, like his newish habit of a year to keep the sugar bowl experiment-free, however, was forgotten, and Mrs. Hudson nearly had heart attacks with the things she found in it aside from sugar.

This had necessitated a quick briefing on what he termed “the other Sherlock’s” changes, mostly to do with the kitchen, and mostly for their landlady’s sake. “I can’t believe he’d stop using the sugar bowl,” he’d grumbled, “it’s handy enough.”

“So are the plastic containers,” Molly’d said, “they’ve even got blank labels and a magic marker so you can let us know if it’s an experiment or not.”

He’d muttered some more, but slowly, there were a growing number of labeled containers saying things like “EYES” or “CARTILAGE”. Molly didn’t want to know how he got the cartilage, as she knows she didn’t give it to him, praying it came from a butcher shop or the like.

She half-smiled to herself as she remembered how proud he seemed when she noticed it. Silly boy. Then her mobile started to ring, and she answered it quickly. “Mary?”

“Don’t go home,” her friend said urgently.

“Why not?” Molly asked, wondering what new experiment Sherlock did, and if Toby was safe.

There was a pause, and in a strangled voice, Mary answered, “John’s been kidnapped.”

“Where are you?” she asked, pulling out her wallet to see how much money she had for travel.

“Scotland Yard,” Mary said, “just, come here.”

“All right,” Molly said, “I’ll be there in half an hour.” She figured she had that much time, should she catch the line at the right time.

“Keep talking to me,” Mary said, “everyone here is driving me mad, trying to calm me down.”

Molly giggled, but it was a little hysterical. She knew that what Sherlock and John did was dangerous, and that they had been kidnapped and threatened before. Sherlock’s amnesia was proof of how far they’d go, in a way, it was lucky he was only missing years and not vision or hearing or worse. Oh, she’d better not say that out loud, she’d just worry Mary further. “How did you find out?” she said instead, getting off at the stop and walking quickly.

“Lestrade came to get me at work,” Mary said, “a bit nice, having the personal touch.”

“Mary,” Molly said, her heart hurting for her friend.

“Don’t you start with me,” the older woman tried to scold her, but there was no bite in it. “Come on, I need a silly story right about now. How was your day?”

“Thanks for that,” Molly groaned, but her spirits lifted when she got to the Tube station and saw a small crowd still there. Good, she hadn’t missed it, and she started to regale her friend about what the office girls (the youngest was called Stacy, she’d learned) did yesterday, practically putting on a show for the paparazzi, girl-group style. “They ended up on youtube, which made Stacy really happy,” Molly smiled, “if you want a good laugh, look up ‘Angels of St. Bart’. I think they made the news, too, but I missed it.”

“Oh, that was them,” Mary said, “I only saw a bit of it myself. Which was Stacy, the blonde bird or one of the brunettes?”

“Blonde,” Molly replied promptly, and got a groan. She smiled, however, because the train had arrived.

“Every time, it’s the blonde who looks the silliest,” Mary sighed, “even I looked silly in our wedding vids.”

“Oh come on,” Molly argued, finding an empty seat, “you were gorgeous. Jacob couldn’t keep his hand steady, is all. I wonder why he never invested in a tripod.”

“No idea,” Mary sighed again. “Anyways. So. Those girls are your coworkers? Good Lord, I thought they had sensible girls working there.”

“Mostly,” Molly said, “unless one is silly enough to be engaged to a Holmes and drags her coworkers into the mess.”

“Cheer up, it’ll be over soon,” Mary said, “you could always get married tomorrow and kill the suspense.”

“Oh God!” Molly gasped. “His mum would kill us!”

“If that diva doesn’t do it first,” Mary retorted. “So, has she shown up lately?”

Molly smiled. “Thanks to increased security, no. At least, not at the morgue. And Mrs. Hudson says she hasn’t seen her around, either. I’d say it was strange, but I’m just glad she’s not around. If this is her idea of changing tactics, I heartily approve.”

“That is strange,” Mary mused. “Speaking of strange, what else has Sherlock been up to at home?” She’s one of the few who know about Sherlock’s amnesia, and while thrown by his ruder-than-usual behavior of late, has gotten used to it relatively quickly, probably because she hadn’t known him as long as the others. John had just told people Sherlock had an extra helping of prat juice and not to mind him, and while that irritated Sherlock to no end, it did the trick of settling people’s ruffled feathers. John was rather good at that, but then, having lived with Sherlock for years, he had plenty of practice.

Molly, on the other hand, was rather new to the sharing-a-flat-with-a-madman business. She talked about Sherlock’s habit of ordering spicy things so Toby wouldn’t nip off his plate, but he still stole things off Molly’s plate. Molly thought that was patently unfair.

“He’d do that with John, too,” Mary said, and Molly could hear the smile in her voice. “I asked John if he minded, when we were at home. But John said he was happy Sherlock was actually eating, as opposed to living off tea and nicotine patches, that he didn’t mind.” She paused. “Have you been feeding him up, love?”

Molly groaned. “He’s doing it to himself,” she said, “stealing off my plate and eating spicy things even I can’t eat. What a rude man.”

“And yet, you’re engaged,” Mary’s voice slid into a teasing tone. “You must really love the rude ones, don’t you?”

“I must,” Molly made a face, “he’s the king of rude. His Royal Rudeness.”

Mary laughed loudly at the other end. “Why, Molly Hooper, I don’t believe you actually insulted your betrothed!” she said dramatically. “Is Sherlock rubbing off on you?”

Molly could almost see her friend fluttering her lashes from where she sat. “Your husband is a saint,” she said, “putting up with the likes of you and Sherlock.”

“He is,” Mary said. After a beat, she murmured, “I hope he’s okay.”

“He is,” Molly said firmly, “he’s got both Sherlock and Lestrade looking for him. They’re the best.”

“Yes, but I’d rather be sleeping with John, thanks,” Mary said, and Molly blushed.

“Mary!”

“Sorry, just trying to settle my nerves.”

“Don’t apologize,” Molly said, almost blurting Sherlock’s favorite phrase about flatmates. She wanted to turn the conversation away from her friend’s fear, so she went back to deflecting. “Speaking of His Royal Rudeness, did I tell you about the time,” she started, and launched into a story about gunpowder, Toby, and an experiment gone wrong that had Mary in stitches.

By the time she reached New Scotland Yard with the spinning cube in the front, Mary was hiccupping from laughing too hard.


	45. Chapter 45

Sherlock had never been so relieved to find the small blonde man alive, although unconscious. He wasn’t sure why, he’d been on cases before where finding a missing person was imperative, but he’d never _cared_ as much. He wasn’t sure he liked the feeling of relief, but he found he would rather have that than the gut-twisting worry that danced in his stomach for the last two hours. Is this what his other self had to deal with, these feelings that slammed into oneself all because of other people?

Lestrade, meanwhile, was calling in the ambulance and giving their location. When he hung up, he shook Sherlock’s shoulder. “He’s gonna be okay, mate,” he said.

Sherlock glared at him. “Of course he’ll be okay,” he snapped, “he’s mildly concussed, will probably need x-rays for that, a little dehydrated and might possibly be nauseous from the chloroform, and surprisingly no broken bones from his kidnappers’ retaliation at his attempt to fight them off, but he’ll be okay. Inform his wife of his destination.” And he stared at the dingy warehouse, one of those abandoned types that had seen some action recently, which was how they got here in the first place, thanks to Sherlock’s homeless network. Of all the things he remembered, he was somewhat thankful that he’d remembered his own version of the CCTV, and while there were new members, he managed to tip the right people. Aloud, he said, “There were three men, not high in rank of whatever gang they were in, muscled, experienced fighters, all right-handed. One is about John’s height, one hundred fifty pounds, wearing army boots. Another is six feet tall, one hundred seventy-two pounds, wearing Doc Martens. The last is six feet two inches, one hundred ninety-one pounds, wearing army boots, and –,” he sniffed at John’s prone body again. There was a definite antiseptic smell, iodoform, that disinfectant peculiar to hospitals, but John had been racing about London with him for the last two days, so it couldn’t have been him. “The tallest works at a large hospital. His sweat can’t mask that disinfectant, so he’s probably on the cleaning staff.”

The emergency crew came in then, picked up John’s body and carted him away onto a gurney. Sherlock’s eyes followed him, then continued to scan the area. “This was only a drop point,” he said, “for someone with more brains than the three kidnappers.” He stared at Lestrade, whose weary brown eyes stared back. “Why is this hacker personally attacking me?”

“Perhaps you finally pissed off the wrong guy,” the detective inspector said flatly. “This breaks his pattern, if this is the same guy.”

“Of course it is!” Sherlock snapped. “He didn’t escalate into violence until I started helping with the investigation! What I don’t understand is why. Why would he break his pattern for me? He was practically a ghost before, but now he’s got arms and legs,” he said, thinking of exactly how he’d break those same limbs on John’s kidnappers. “Why am I considered a threat, when entire countries didn’t scare him?”

“Good questions,” Lestrade said, “how’s about using that brilliant mind to tackle the Professor’s arms and legs?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Must I do all the work for you?”

“Yeah,” Lestrade said, “saves me the trouble of arresting you for attempted murder of the suspects in John’s kidnapping.”

The consulting detective narrowed his eyes. Lestrade had gotten better at reading him in the intervening years, unfortunately. “I would do no such thing,” he said frostily. “Would I let you know that they are most likely hiding out in the shortest man’s flat if I were?”

“We don’t know who they are, their names, or anything,” Lestrade grumbled. “Too bad none of them came with a GPS tracker.”

“Find the hospital cleaner,” Sherlock said, “the short man is his brother. The light heavyweight is most likely the one who’s in touch with the Professor.”

“And you would know that how?” Lestrade raised his eyebrows.

Sherlock smiled thinly. “He’s got Doc Martens, while his coworkers in conspiracy are wearing standard issue military boots. It’s more likely he’s got connections, smart enough to have them hole up in the brother’s flat than his own, but not smart enough to plan a puzzle and kidnapping.”

“Right, fine,” the greying man sighed, walking out. “And where will you be while we’re digging through hospital employee files?”

Sherlock grinned, which sent a slight shiver through the other man. “It looks like I’ve got someone really smart, really vicious, this time,” he said, “and for once, he’s not related to me.”

As he left the warehouse, he could hear Lestrade mutter, “That wasn’t creepy at all.” His grin shifted into something much less friendly. His other self had promised certain harm to anyone who tried to hurt John or Mary Watson. He was only beginning to understand why that promise was made, and he had a personal score to settle with the bastard who robbed him of his memories. Because if anyone had to delete Sherlock Holmes’ memories, it would be him, nobody else.

Yes, he would make them pay, slowly and painfully, for each torturous second he’s had to spend trying to regain his footing in a world that not only moved on without him, but a world that he supposedly helped to move. While the latter would ordinarily make him feel proud, he only feels bitterness that he’s unable to recall how that happened, or even why he would bother.

Cursing the “Professor” under his breath, he hailed a cab.


	46. Chapter 46

When Sherlock arrives, it’s hesitantly, as if he knows there will be a ton of people he doesn’t quite remember, but that will expect him to behave a certain way. And he would be right, Molly thinks, as the consulting detective enters the hospital room quietly, for once.

“Sherlock,” Mary said, and wrapped him in a crushing hug before he could leave. The blonde woman didn’t care that her makeup wasn’t holding up any more, she was just thankful that Sherlock found her husband.

John has been in and out of consciousness, ever since they hooked him up to the IVs. He smiles tiredly at Sherlock, and his eyes close again. Mrs. Hudson tuts over the gesture, patting his free hand with hers, a teary smile on her own face.

But Molly is looking at Sherlock, now released by Mary, who schools his mildly-shocked reaction to a more neutral one. Mary smiles briefly back, then goes back to sitting next to John, staring at his tired face and rubbing his shoulder gently.

“Molly, I need to speak with you,” Sherlock says in a low voice, and Molly nods, then follows him out.

She isn’t surprised to find him glancing up and down the corridor before he asks her, “Who have I offended in the past five years?”

Molly stared at him. “You’re kidding, right?”

He huffed, rolling his eyes. “It sounds stupid, but it isn’t. This hacker, calling himself ‘The Professor’,” and she can practically see the distaste rolling off his lips as if it were slime, “has made it very, very personal, and rather painful. He hasn’t done this sort of thing to anyone before, I’ve checked,” he said quickly, to her unspoken question, “whole countries haven’t provoked this sort of extreme and violent reaction. When I go poking around, however, I get hit by a car, and when we resume investigations, John gets kidnapped and beaten. So tell me, is there anyone, even a cabbie, that I might have offended who just might be the person we’re looking for?”

She exhaled. “You’d really have to ask John that,” she said, “he hasn’t written all your cases yet, and I’ve only known of a handful outside of what’s on his blog.”

“Dammit,” Sherlock looked at the wall, frowning.

Molly frowned, too. When he had to resort to using regular swear words, it meant something was seriously wrong. “Sherlock.” No response. “John was, is, your best friend. Your partner, in finances and in the work. For a while, they had bets on you at the Yard that you were partners elsewhere as well,” she blushed. He blinked, and she blushed further. 

“Let me see,” he narrowed his eyes at her, “Sergeant Donovan.”

“Um, yeah,” she ducked her head.

But he lifted her chin, his eyes still piercing. “Right now, we’re both out of commission, temporarily, when it comes to data on the past five years. So, tell me about the handful of unwritten cases that have come across your tables.”

“Um, let me see,” Molly looked at the wall, because it was easier to concentrate on that than the tall man with the cold eyes before her. She blinked when he grabbed her hand and started walking. “What? Where are we going?”

“Smile helpfully for the cameras,” he said, doing so, “because we’re about to walk into a ton of paparazzi before we get home.”

“What?” The flashes blinded her, and she couldn’t see without the attendant blinking lights lingering. “Sherlock!” Her hand tightened around his, and she stumbled after him, pasting a smile on her face at where she was being pulled towards, since she couldn’t really see him anymore, just darkness against the flashing lights. She gasped when he finally pulled her to him, hiding her face against his chest, but held on.

“Duck,” he said in a low voice, and she did so, only to find they’ve tumbled into a cab. “Blink quickly, that should help take care of the blindness.”

“Could’ve told me earlier,” she muttered, but did just that. She could hear him snickering on the side, and she made a face. “What?”

“You look so,” he cleared his throat, “exaggerated.”

“Exaggerated? How?” she stopped blinking to see that he was smirking at her. “What?”

“You said that already,” he said unnecessarily. “Like a parody of those silent film heroines. Could you blink any harder?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Hush. I can see you now, and those horrible faces you’re making.”

His nose went up twenty percent. “I am not.”

“Oh, it’s just your face, then,” she grinned, feeling like they’re in primary school.

“And what’s wrong with it?” he raised an eyebrow that nearly hit his hairline.

Her grin deepened. “Oh, nothing,” she said lightly, poking at the raised eyebrow, “it’s just usually, brunettes have dark eyebrows as well as dark hair, that’s all, and only start to lighten when they age. Unless you’re much older than you seem.”

He batted her hand away. “I’m sure that’s not the first time that’s occurred to you,” he said, miffed.

She giggled. “I thought it was interesting, but John said it first. He was trying to be nice.”

Sherlock frowned as they pulled up to the flat. “How was that being nice?”

“He was trying to help me get over you,” she smiled, remembering. “But you took care of that yourself.”

“Did I?” he said vaguely as they went up the stairs.

“Mm,” she said, not relishing that memory at all, thankful that his back was to her as he headed towards the table with his non-poisonous experiments. “John invited us, that is, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and me, to that first Christmas party here, and I got dressed up and everything. But you picked on my dress, my makeup, and deduced everything wrong about my gift to you.”

“I was wrong?” he turned to stare at her. “About what?”

Her lips twitched uncomfortably. “You said the gift was for a new boyfriend,” and she felt miserable, dead miserable, but it was something she’d never forgotten, “ ‘That would suggest long-term hopes, however forlorn, and that she’s seeing him tonight is evident from her makeup and what she’s wearing, obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts.’ ” Her eyes tear up with the remembered pain, but blinks them back. “You only realized when you read the gift tag.”

“I did?” he frowned, and seemed more disappointed with that than the fact that he insulted her.

“Yes,” she said quietly, looking down, “I’m glad I told you off, then.” Then she forced a smile on her face. “Ironic, isn’t it, now that we don’t even like each other like that, we’re engaged?”

He stared at her for a very long moment, then nodded. “I am sorry for that, Molly Hooper,” he said quietly. She stared right back. “Forgive me.”

It’s almost exactly what he said last time, the only time he’s ever apologized for an action in her memory. She’s so shocked, all she can say is, “All right.”

He looks relieved, and she doesn’t know why. Then he sits down in the chair facing her laptop. “Molly, please, tell me what you can remember about the cases.”

She sighs, then goes into the kitchen. “Fine, but I need to feed Toby first.”

He waves a hand peremptorily at her. Lovely. So she feeds her furry boy up, and decides to make a pot of tea. It sounds like she and Sherlock will need something to sustain them before they can call for takeaway.


	47. Chapter 47

Sherlock waited until Molly was herself unconscious, or rather, asleep, before going out to contact his homeless network. He did tell Lestrade that he wouldn’t personally deal with John’s kidnappers, but that didn’t mean he was going to wait until Lestrade’s team found them and the evidence disappeared. No, he trusted his network to find them quickly and efficiently, and if the kidnappers showed up at the Yard with a few broken ribs or shattered metatarsals, he’s not going to complain.

Then he went back to 221B and started going down the list that Molly gave him, and proceeded to cross off each and every one. He narrowed his eyes. No, they may have their grudges, but none of them were clever enough to do what the Professor did, or had enough resources to do so. He huffed, then began with a single nicotine patch, intending to add more later. He lay back on the sofa, his hands templed together and stared up at the ceiling, but not really seeing it.

No, it had to be something else, some other connection. He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. The timing was odd, he thought. Five years ago, he met John Watson and they not only shared a flat, but they shared in the work. And he lost five years of his life, but that was coincidence. He frowned. Their first case, which John fancifully titled “A Study in Pink”, was five years ago.

And the Professor started hacking five years ago, at least, as far as the world noticed. But what if he started earlier? And what if it was closer to home, to London? Why else would this Professor take it so personally once Sherlock became involved? And how personally did he know Sherlock?

So. He was looking for someone in his own past, someone he might actually remember. Someone who may have had a hand in one or more of his cases, someone who honestly thought Sherlock Holmes was a threat. And someone who wanted to lure Sherlock into a trap. But why spring the trap now? Why wait for five years?

Because it wasn’t personal before. It’s very possible, as he hadn’t heard of the Professor previous to five years ago, the hacker hadn’t heard of Sherlock Holmes prior to John Watson’s blog. Much as Sherlock liked to think of himself as the center of the universe, statistically, he knows he’s only one of billions walking on the earth. But something must have changed five years ago for the Professor, just as something changed for Sherlock Holmes.

Ordinarily, he would place John Watson at the top of the list of the men who would be the Professor, but the man is such an obvious Luddite, there’s no way he could be. That, and he’s married someone like Mary, so unless he’s an excellent actor at home and at work, he’d have to be a true sociopath to pull off that kind of balancing act. No, it’s not John Watson, and he finds himself surprised by his relief at that deduction.

Lestrade knew him before John did. But he easily crosses the detective inspector off the list. For one, the man needs people like Sgt. Donovan to handle his press dealings and anything more complicated than word processing, and he’s too much of an honest beat cop to bother with things like international hacking or hiring thugs to beat up a man like John Watson. No, any physical violence would be personally done by Lestrade, as it would be for John. So he’s off the list.

Mycroft? He snorted. His brother may be the British Government, and he may have kidnapped each and every one person presumed closest to him, and he may have teamed up with Mummy to trap him into a stupid marriage, but even he wouldn’t go so far as to throw his own brother and John into peril, would he? He frowned. Actually, he could, but he wouldn’t. The worst he’s ever done to Sherlock recently was throw him into rehab, and it was, unfortunately, for his own good. Trying to kill his brother and his brother’s friend, on the other hand, goes against everything in his overbearing-brother personality. Regretfully, he takes Mycroft off the list, but he has to be thorough, and smirked.

He continues to go through the list, but stops. He takes everyone from New Scotland Yard off the list, no offense, but none of them are competent enough, in spite of the media claiming it was an inside job. What idiot would leak their own information? No, it was an outside job, by someone who wasn’t even affiliated with the police.

The Professor… that name bothered him. It’s obvious even to the media that it wasn’t a real professor, but he was smart enough to be one. No, smarter. He’s easily outwitted the security systems of several foreign nations, enough to throw the scent onto another country entirely. But it’s someone based in England… Someone with as much ego as Sherlock has, if not more, taking his talents into other countries. And yet, he hadn’t made any overt move against Sherlock until this month. Interesting. He’s smart, yes, and charismatic enough to make others follow his plans to the letter, because usually idiots like the ones who kidnapped John would improvise a little. No, the Professor allowed them to show themselves, to be vulnerable to capture, and yet, he’s certain that they’ve never met him face to face. Tricky fellow, indeed. He probably sent the Doc Martens to the ringleader as a show of good faith.

It’s very possible that some of the cases he’s come across have the Professor’s fingerprints on them, but he hadn’t even noticed them. The more fool he, he cursed himself, and went through everything from John’s blog as well as Molly’s stories. Here and there, there was an international feel, such as the case of The Blind Banker and The Amateur Astronomer, as well as the blog titled, horridly enough, “Sherlock Holmes Baffled”. That one Molly remembered as well, only because she said it was the one case that dealt with a dead man who was found dead where he shouldn’t have been. That day, the other Sherlock had paced up and down, baffled as to why a man who had obviously died of a heart attack a week earlier in Bath (according to his family) was found in a car boot in Surrey, when his body was mysteriously checked in at Berlin and was supposed to have died in a crash near Dusseldorf.

No, not an international feel, he corrected himself, a feeling that there was someone behind the scenes, a conductor of the orchestra of crime, if you will.

“And it all started five years ago,” he murmured. “No, he noticed me five years earlier. But he must have started much earlier than that.”

He inhaled again, then exhaled slowly. If he was anything like Sherlock, and he’s guessing he is, up to a point, he started rather young. Hm. No, it couldn’t be Victor Trevor from uni, either. He, like Godfrey Norton, was rather shallow in both personality and intellect, but for all his shallowness, he was genuinely worried about his father’s health and wouldn’t really benefit from his death, as the blackmailer had taken everything. That, and Victor had gone through something of a mental breakdown not long after his father’s death, in spite of Sherlock’s efforts to be taken seriously by the police. That was frustrating. He frowned again. Well. That was a strange case as well, it assumed a familiarity with Sherlock, as if someone knew he hadn’t been taken seriously by the police and wouldn’t with this case, either.

The first time that happened was with –

His eyes flew open. “Carl Powers.”

He jumped up and opened Molly’s laptop. He typed in “Carl Powers Sussex.” It came up with the same drivel he’d read when he was a boy, that this talented young swimmer had suddenly experienced muscle cramps and, panicking, died. And there was still no mention of the missing trainers.

Yes, someone, like Sherlock, started early, but that person started first. That was intolerable. Why did this murderer, clever enough not to get caught years ago, decided to surface as a hacker first? Something in the Professor’s circumstances changed five years ago, forcing him to become public. In Sherlock’s case, it was John Watson, giving him a shot in the arm by publicizing his cases. No, not just that, Sherlock’s read John’s earlier blog entries, and it’s clear that the other Sherlock had given John a reason to live a different, perhaps even fuller, life by bringing him along. Even then, he thought it was strange that he brought along a broken man on a potentially dangerous case…

No, it wasn’t strange. Because he was broken, too, five years ago, and he would’ve driven everyone at St. Bart’s and the Yard to eventual homicide if he hadn’t met John Watson. He was clean, yes, but not long, and he knows he was headed for a relapse if he wasn’t allowed to be on the serial suicide case. Apparently, he was asked to join by Lestrade himself, thanks to the titular victim of the blog entry. “Thank you, Jennifer Wilson,” he murmured, having cross-referenced each and every one of the cases. It took a desperate, but brilliant, woman to get him on the case, which led to him impulsively allow John Watson to come along. Yes, knowing himself, it would have been impulsive, backed up by the rudimentary details he’d gleaned off the man and not wanting to work with Anderson, and bore decent results. He stared at the computer monitor, re-reading John’s first case entry. The killer, a taxi driver, was dying of a brain aneurism, and believed he was outwitting, outliving, his victims in a so-called game of wits. Molly mentioned something about a fairy tale movie being related, but he pushed that to the side.

Something else in the blog entry caught his eye. A further education college. The Professor. He typed in the date and the details of the case into the search engine, and found it. “Roland-Kerr Further Education College.” He pasted that into the search engine as well, and came up with some very interesting things, such as the fact that the buildings were mirror images of each other, that it specialized in maths, computer and science fields, and was highly regarded for its foreign exchange student programs, and was as close to a polytechnic school as one could get.

Then he looked up the school’s staff, scouring each and every employee for their work history. He smirked at the fact that the academic staff at further education colleges were called “teachers” rather than “professors”. He supposed his nemesis was irked by this fact, rather than being amused. He checked their ages against anyone who would’ve been old enough to want to kill someone like Carl Powers, and narrowed the list only slightly, then narrowed it further to anyone who might’ve lived in or around Sussex, and then further to anyone who had frequent contact with foreign students and staff.

Then he tossed that list and stared at the list of employees, seeing which ones caught his fancy. There were about three, one a woman. “Harriet Doran, Robert St. Simon, and James Moriarty.” The name “Harriet” only stood out because it was also the name of John’s sister, but also because she was a brilliant computer programmer. Would she be the type to avenge herself on Carl Powers, to destroy Sherlock Holmes, and take down governments? He re-read her biography, both officially and unofficially. While Doran had something of the self-made woman about her, she came from a broken childhood, was married to a Francis Moulton, and had an otherwise uneventful marriage, one small dog, no children.

St. Simon, on the other hand, had more of a motive to avenge himself against Doran than anyone else, since at one point, he was set to marry her, but she dropped him in favor of her American husband. He wasn’t a teacher, but rather part of the liaison group, the political arm of the college, as it were. He went through a string of girlfriends, is currently on girlfriend number fifteen, comes from money almost as old as Sherlock’s parents’, and would otherwise be quite well-to-do if he lived a century and a half ago. Yes, he would be likely to be the perpetrator of a crime of passion, if he had less concern for the saving of his own skin. So he was out.

This Moriarty, however, stood out because he was so unremarkable. It was as if he was a pastiche of every bland and normal thing that John Watson strived to be: boring childhood, boring educational background (parochial school), boring love life (series of failed dates), boring job (maths teacher) – he was the dullest out of everyone on the staff, including the janitor, who at least had the courtesy to provide Sherlock with a brief flash of juvenile delinquency at one point. No, it was as if Moriarty had taken everything bland and average, but above-average enough to get a job teaching, and got paid average wages for an average job. Boring. And yet there were connections.

This man happened to go to the same schools that Carl Powers did, according to his boring resume. This man happened to live near Victor Trevor’s father during the time when Sherlock investigated that particular case. This man, who couldn’t be more boring if he were a Tube announcer, works at the same place where his first case ended.

And this man, according to both his work and hospital records, took a year off from work nine years ago because he had cancer. And this man went to the same hospital that Jeff Hope, the murderous cabbie, did. God, why can’t he remember that conversation? All he has for now is what’s written in John’s blog, which was edited enough (yes, John, thanks for obliquely telling everyone how you shot the cabbie for me). But he doesn’t have the exact words that Hope told him, nothing to point him to Moriarty.

Perhaps that was the point. After all, the other Sherlock closed the case without pursuing the Professor, who was starting to make a name for himself breaking into financial accounts abroad from another country altogether rather than start from home. Very clever.

“Boring little James Moriarty,” Sherlock purred, “where are you now?”


	48. Chapter 48

Molly woke up and yawned, nuzzling against the body next to her. Wait, what? Her eyes flew open and she gasped, nearly falling backwards out of bed. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

A very nettled Sherlock Holmes glared at her. “How long do you people have to sleep?” he grumbled, looking oddly like Toby when he wasn’t getting his way.

“That doesn’t answer my question!” she said, her voice louder and higher as she pulled as much of the blanket as she could to her side.

He rolled his eyes. “I thought you were supposed to knock me out, not drag me in,” he glared.

“I thought so, too,” she frowned, confused. “I’m not sick.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” he said irritably, making himself more comfortable under the blanket.

She sighed. Oh yes, he doesn’t remember. “I have a habit of grabbing things nearby when I’m sick. The last time that happened was when I came down with a fever and you took care of me.” Then she realized what she just admitted to and blushed.

Now he looked confused. “Really? I thought you hit the other Sherlock?”

Her blush deepened, and she pulled the blanket over her face and closed her eyes, like that would help. Well, at least she didn’t have to see his blasted smirking face. “I did, the first time you, I mean, he tried to wake me up to get milk. But when you, he, took care of me, I guess the sleeping side thought you were safe. I’m sorry.”

She can hear him sigh gustily through the thick blanket. “Stop apologizing,” he said, bored, as if sheer repetition would make her stop.

“I’m sor-- all, all right,” she corrected herself. “Um, how are your arms? Any deep bruises?”

“I’m fine,” he grumbled, “next time I’ll send Lestrade in.”

“Sherlock!” Molly threw off the blanket to glare at him.

He’s smirking, drat it. “Yes,” he says, sitting up with his arms folded.

“You’re much warmer than Irene said you were, and you don’t hog the blankets,” she yawned. Then she froze, realizing she said that out loud. Oh God. Why won’t she shut up?

He grabbed the covers before she could hide herself again. “What else did she say?”

She’s blushing again. “She said you,” she took a deep breath and did her own version of Sherlock’s rapid-fire explanations, “shesaidyou’reinsatiableandyougavehertonsoforgasmsandyou’relikeicewhenyouactuallysleepandlikedtoexperiment,” she mumbled, looking away.

He smirked, and she groaned in despair. Of course he would understand her just when she didn’t want him to. How irritating. “Of course I was insatiable and experimental with sex, I was using cocaine and allowing my hormones to run wild, for once, so yes, I’d have even less inhibitions than usual,” he snorted, “likewise, my lack of heat due to lack of much body fat or muscle, naturally, I would give in to my body’s baser needs of seeking warmth in blankets. I don’t remember much of it, and what little I do,” he made a disgusted face now, “only underlines why the sexual act is an experiment I never wish to repeat.”

“Would it have been better with a man than a woman?” Molly asked, then wanted to hit herself over the head.

He stared at her, making her feel both uncomfortable and guilty, then nodded. “Ah,” he said, “you’re under the impression I would have a preference. The only thing I prefer is my work. People don’t satisfy me, the work does. Do you understand?”

Her mouth twitched upwards. “Well, guess I don’t have to worry, then, do I?” she said brightly.

He looked at her, confused. “Worry? Why?” Then he blinked and nodded again. “Correct,” he said, although a very, very small part of her wished he hadn’t said it so firmly. “Just because we are of the opposite sex involved in a matter of attempting to placate my mother doesn’t naturally lead into actually engaging in things like sex. That would be ridiculous, unless it was a plot in one of your Mills & Boon novels.” She blushed, but his low libido aside, as a woman, it was an understandable worry in real life. “Besides, we know each other intimately anyways. Sex wouldn’t improve matters.”

“I feel like we’re already married,” Molly grinned in spite of herself, bouncing to sit up in bed so she’d at least be face-level with him instead tummy-level. “We argue and don’t have sex.”

“Is that what married people normally do?” he looked nonplussed. “I thought it just happened to those who go and kill each other.”

She snorted. “No, but it happens anyways, the arguing and the abstinence, not the murder,” she shook her head. “Mum and Dad loved each other to bits, but there were days when Dad had to work in the yard, or Mum would go shopping, so they wouldn’t bite each other’s heads off. And when they came back, it was good,” she smiled, remembering. “What about your parents?”

His face soured. “They didn’t talk much, and when they did, it wasn’t very pleasant,” he said, “I think I spent a lot of my time in the library when Father was alive. Mycroft can remember when they actually got along, but it never happened around me.”

“How did he die?” she asked.

His pale eyes seemed to look somewhere past her ear when he answered, “Car crash. Speed and alcohol were factors in his death, as well as the two-thousand foot drop over the cliff he tumbled down. Mycroft had to be notified at his boarding school, I was notified by the tutor, who was notified by Mummy and the phone call she fainted from.”

She hugged him impulsively, even though it sounded as if he liked his father as much as he did his mother. She’s sure there are reasons for that, but still, his parent died. He froze, as she expected he would, but he didn’t push her off. That was good. And then he relaxed. That was… different.

“Am I supposed to reciprocate?” he asked against her skull.

She rolled eyes. “Yes,” she said.

He sighed, and did just that. “Is this what I should have done at the party?”

She smiled against his shoulder. “Yes.”

“Hm.”

She decided to push it, since it was feeling pretty nice. “Petting my hair would help,” she suggested.

“Fine,” he grumbled, but did just that.

And that’s when Lestrade and Sgt. Donovan came in, bursting into her bedroom.


	49. Chapter 49

The dark sergeant only rolled her eyes, while Lestrade just looks put-upon. “I thought you would’ve told her about Moriarty rather than getting off with her,” the detective inspector grumbled.

She was less concerned about her appearance than about the sudden intrusion, for once, and didn’t bolt from their embrace. At least their cover story looks believable now. “What’s he talking about?” Molly leaned out of his arms a bit to look at him in confusion, then at Lestrade. “Who’s Moriarty?”

“James Moriarty, otherwise known as the Professor, hacking genius, tried to kill John and me, works at Roland-Kerr Further Education College, does that last one ring a bell?”

She frowned. “Kind of.”

Lestrade jumps in, “That was where Sherlock and that killer cabbie had their little showdown. Sherlock, we can’t find him.”

“Of course not,” Sherlock said, sounding bored but not really. “I’m sure the very same method he used to get into the Yard’s files is the same one that sounds the alarm to let him know you’re onto him. If he’s as smart as I think he is, he’ll only show up when he wants to, and not a moment sooner.” Then he looked at the brunette he’s still holding. “Which is why I came to you last night, and that’s when you dragged me into bed and--”

Donovan is putting her hands over her ears and going, “La lala lala la! I don’t need to hear this!” like an inane child. Really. And after she’d started the bet on his and John’s relationship being non-platonic, not to mention her own pathetic affair with Anderson, that idiot. Rather hypocritical, really.

“Your love life aside, we need to get the two of you out of here and into a safe location,” Lestrade said urgently.

Molly straightened up. “What about my job?”

“What about it?” Sherlock frowned.

She glared at him. “I do have to work, so I can pay my share of the rent, and eat, and everything you think is boring stuff,” she said.

Lestrade said, “Safety first, job second. Tell them you’re sick and staying with the Watsons.”

“Oh, all right,” she said, mollified. She started to reach for her mobile, then stopped, crashing into his chest. “Sherlock,” she blushed, “you’ll have to let go so I can get to my phone.”

What? Oh. Dull. He let go, and she did as she was asked, and they could hear one of her loud coworkers wishing her well and all that from the other end. Sherlock got off of the bed and tossed his robe to the side. “Where’s the safehouse?” he asked.

“Can’t tell you,” Lestrade said, crossing his arms.

He was being even more idiotic than usual. “How else am I supposed to know where Molly is?” he asked, taking off his shirt and heading towards the door.

“What the – put your shirt back on!” the detective inspector yelled. “What do you mean? You’ll both be in the safehouse, genius!”

“No, we won’t,” Sherlock said firmly, “because I’m going with you. I want to search his flat, office, anywhere he’s been, see what he’s got there, and see if he’s left any messages for me.”

“So I’m going to be the princess in the tower, is that it?” Molly pouted.

She was okay at pouting, but she wasn’t as good as he was. “If that’s how you see it, yes,” Sherlock said, “I see it as keeping you from the same fate as John Watson.” That shut her up temporarily.

“Don’t worry,” Donovan told Molly, “we’ll look after him.” Lestrade nodded, then stared and shrugged when Sherlock glared at him.

The girl on the bed smiled a little. “Good,” she said, exhaling. “Sherlock? Come here,” she said, less in the captain voice John occasionally slips into and more the trying-to-order-her-cat-around type.

He walked over, as opposed to her cat, who would ignore anything anyone said unless it was about food. “Yes?” he raised his eyebrows a little, just a little curious as to her demand.

She pulled him in by his shirt front and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Good luck,” she blushed lightly, smiling.

“I don’t need luck,” he sniffed, straightening up when he heard a click. Donovan used her phone to take a picture, and Lestrade was smirking.

“You two are so cute,” the sergeant beamed, putting her phone away. “I don’t know why I doubted you.”

“Shut up,” Sherlock glared, then stomped past her and down to his bedroom to change. _Stupid Mummy,_ he thought, _stupid Mycroft. And stupid Lestrade and Donovan, too._

He gave himself a quick once-over in the bathroom, then pulled on his work clothes and put in a bit of product to keep his hair from falling into his face. He then strode, not stomped, back upstairs to Molly’s room. His bespoke shoes wouldn’t allow stomping. “What about Mrs. Hudson?” he asked Lestrade, since it seemed Sally was guarding the bathroom. He guessed it was more for her own misplaced peace of mind than for Molly’s.

“We asked her to visit someone out of town,” Lestrade smiled a little, “so she did, with a little police company.”

Good. John already had a small army guarding him and Mary at the hospital, so that was covered. All he wanted now was to find Moriarty, and he needed no distractions. Then he frowned. Since when were Mrs. Hudson and Molly distractions? Stupid other Sherlock. He’s made his life so complicated with people and relationships and things. “Fine,” he said, and swept down the stairs, Lestrade following after him.


	50. Chapter 50

Molly Hooper woke up to find the police car had crashed into a lightpost, and there was a dry, nasty taste in her mouth, Toby was yowling, and none of the police officers were conscious. Worse, all of the police officers were beaten to within an inch of their lives, and by her aching arms, legs and head, she was the cause.

Much as she’d like to leave the scene screaming and crying, she knows she can’t do that. Already the paparazzi that had followed the police car she was in are starting to pull up to the crash site. “You’re a big girl,” she tells herself in sternly, her shaky voice only a hint at her inner hysteria. “You can handle this.” She gulps in a few breaths, then opened the car doors and shoved the “officers” who chloroformed her out, using their own handcuffs on them, and yelled at the paparazzi. “Call 999!” she said. “Tell them that there are fake cops left on,” she looked around, “where am I and what street is this?” A middle-aged man with a camera shouted, “Essex Road in Gravesend!” She repeated that, then waited patiently as they called not just the cops, but their own “media” outlets as well. Then she put on a bravado that she barely felt and grinned, or tried to, but ended up baring her teeth just the same. “And tell Irene Adler that if she really and truly wants to be Sherlock Holmes’ fiancée, this is the kind of life she’ll have: not glitz and glamour, but kidnapping attempts, death threats by people like James Moriarty, and having to do stupid things like drive a police car because you’ve lost your Oyster card. If she can handle that, then she is welcome to try and marry Sherlock!”

Then she jumped back into the car, repositioned Toby’s cat carrier, and tried to calm him down, even as her own nerves were jangling. “Okay, baby,” she cooed, “Mommy’s going to try to drive this thing. Only problem is Mommy hasn’t driven a car in ages.” She’d only started because her father was teaching her, but they’d barely gotten past the inner workings of the car to actually driving it when he had to fight cancer. She swallowed the sudden sadness tightening her throat, and turned the key. “Oh, come on,” she wailed, “the engine’s intact. Why isn’t it moving?” Then she remembered the clutch and sighed deeply.

And proceeded to strip the gears of the police car, even as the gears in her head were turning, causing some of the bystanders and paparazzi to wince, but they got out of the way as she pulled off the sidewalk and back onto the street. She didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to know that those cops weren’t real, or that they were probably working for Moriarty, and that they’d intended to use her against Sherlock. Also, they’d taken her purse and phone prior to chloroforming her, which was rather stupid on their part, but she supposed they were trying to scare her. It did, a little, especially since she didn’t know where they’d tossed it and if someone was using her credit card. Then again, she didn’t have much money in her wallet, so that wasn’t too bad. But they had all her ID cards! Those would be a pain to replace! And she would have to get the numbers of all her coworkers again, not to mention Lestrade and the others! And she had her keys in her purse, too!

“Oh, Toby,” she sighed, “it’s too bad the big scary men were evil enough to leave Mommy without her purse or her mobile. It’s not fun when the only things she has are you and a police car!” Then a thought occurred to her. “No, that’s not the only things. Mommy has friends. And you know what?” she said brightly. “You can always count on friends to help you out!”

So she drove through London, doing her best to keep the car moving when it had to, and ignoring the honking and waved fingers in her direction. She had to get to the hospital, she just had to!


	51. Chapter 51

As they were combing the empty flat, Sherlock and Lestrade both got a text from Donovan, saying that she hadn’t heard from the police officers at the safehouse. “What?” Lestrade frowned at his phone, then looked at Sherlock.

Sherlock started to text Molly, but Lestrade put a hand on his. “Procedure is to take the phone, check it for bugs, then return it to them an hour later,” he said.

“Stupid procedure,” Sherlock said in a voice like ice.

“Yeah, now,” the DI sighed gustily. “Dammit.” Then he phoned the sergeant. “Sally, call the boys’ car, see if there’s anyone there. And hope that Molly Hooper is safe and sound for all our sakes.” Then he got a call from headquarters, and frowned, just listening. “The hell..? Are you sure?” he asked the caller, then groaned at the answer. “Fine, yes, lock them up, but find out where the hell it’s going!”

“What’s going on?” Sherlock asked.

The grey-haired man looked like he was about to turn a few more hairs even greyer. “I think you’re rubbing off on your fiancée,” he said, exasperated, “she kicked out her would-be kidnappers from a police car, and is driving it to God knows where!”

Sherlock blinked, then smirked. “Let me guess, they tried to knock her out or chloroform her, didn’t they?”

“Yeah,” Lestrade said slowly, “you know something about that?”

The consulting detective’s smirk turned ugly. “She’s got a nasty habit of tossing people out of bed when she’s asleep.”

“Oh, God,” Lestrade’s eyes searched the heavens, or at least, the ceiling, and received no answer to whatever prayer he might have thought of. “Thank goodness there won’t be any doe-eyed, curly-haired little rugrats in the future.”

Sherlock looked affronted. “I didn’t mean me,” he snapped, “as I said earlier this morning, Molly was the one who pulled me into bed last night and--”

“All right, getting depressed again,” Lestrade sighed. “And we’re thoroughly off-track. So. It seems Miss Hooper’s safe and driving about in a police car, away from Moriarty. Sally’s calling her in. But what about Moriarty himself? Can you get a read on him here?”

“I’m a scientist, not a psychic,” Sherlock snapped, his eyes narrowing as the older detective snorted. “What?”

“Sorry, ‘Star Trek’ joke, never mind,” Lestrade waved him off, “so, nothing?”

“I wouldn’t say ‘nothing’,” Sherlock drawled, “only that for someone who’s supposedly bolted this morning, this place is awfully empty.”

“Yeah, kinda noticed that,” Lestrade muttered, “so what? This a fake address?”

“Oh, I’m sure it was real at one point, or it wouldn’t have been so thoroughly cleaned,” Sherlock said, his eyes taking in evidence of the wiring being tampered with, the former occupant going so far as having the walls scrubbed, the floor tiles and bed replaced, and everything tidied up better than a post-forensic examination. “No, James Moriarty did live here, once. Where he’s gone to, however, I haven’t the faintest. The only reason I’ve come this far is because he wanted me to. He wanted me to come to this dead end,” he frowned. “He wants me to know how futile it is trying to anticipate his next move, to show me that I won’t find him until he wants me to.”

“Sounds like he’s flirting with you, in a sick way,” Lestrade noted. “Or playing chess. If he’s been doing this as long as you say he is, then he knows you better than John does, than I do.” He glanced at Sherlock. “What about your brother?”

“What about him?” Sherlock said, far too quickly for his taste.

The grey-haired man put his hands on his hips. That seemed a familiar gesture, somehow. “Perhaps you can ask your brother if he’s got a clue about your not-so-secret admirer,” he said. “Or if you ran over Moriarty’s puppy as a kid.”

“Ha, ha,” Sherlock said, making no move to contact his brother dearest. Much as he despised this Moriarty, he hated relying on his brother more.

“Sherlock.”

Ugh, it was that brooking-no-nonsense tone all authority types seemed to develop. “Greg,” he said in the same tone.

“Fine, fine,” he said, “I’ll contact him, but I doubt he’d have anything for me. The man is so overbearing that he would’ve warned me about him ten years ago, at least.”

Lestrade blinked, but shrugged a little. “Okay.”

Sherlock sniffed. “Anything from Sergeant Donovan yet?”

The older man smiled a bit, then checked his phone. “She said Molly said she’s okay. Tearing that poor car apart, yes, but okay. Does she even have a driver’s license?”

Sherlock blinked. From what he could recall from rifling through her wallet after that first day with amnesia, he couldn’t see it in his mind’s eye. “No, but she does have an awful lot of cat food coupons,” he grimaced.

“Not what I was asking,” Lestrade sighed. “Right. First thing when this is over is getting her some driving lessons. Second thing is re-teaching her how to kick you out of bed.” He grinned when Sherlock glared at him. “Just wondering if you were listening or if you were getting lost in your head again.”

“Not on a case,” Sherlock said. “Where is she heading?”

“John and Mary,” he said, “she’ll be safe as houses there.”

“Interesting phrase,” Sherlock murmured, “considering you were sending her off to one with a group of Moriarty’s men.”

“Didn’t know they were that earlier,” Lestrade shot back, “so what? We wait for Moriarty to jump out of a cake and yell ‘surprise’?”

Sherlock frowned. “Why would he jump out of a cake?”

Lestrade proceeded to enlighten, or rather, disturb him, with the rituals most males expect for their bachelor party. “And then there are--”

“No, that’ll be enough,” Sherlock cut him off. “And I am never having one of those. Ever.”

Lestrade smirked. “You’re getting married.”

“I’m _engaged _,” Sherlock corrected him haughtily, “actually getting to the marriage date may take a while.” Hopefully enough time will pass for Mummy to get distracted again…__

__The detective inspector looked disappointed. “Fine. So we meet up with everyone at the hospital, and figure out what to do from there.”_ _


	52. Chapter 52

Molly bursts into John’s room, her face and hair a mess, clutching Toby’s carrier in one hand and her overnight bag in the other. “Maryyyyyyy!!!!” she wails, throwing herself at the older woman.

“Oh, Molly,” the blonde woman sighs, wrapping her arms around the girl. “Thank goodness you’ve got a brain.”

“I, I had to drive a car,” Molly hiccupped, as if that was the worst part of her day.

“There, there, it’s all right now,” Mary soothed, smoothing her hair down. “We’ve been getting the most interesting texts and calls from Lestrade and Sherlock. They said you knocked out a bunch of Moriarty’s men in your sleep, that you stole a police car, and I suppose that last bit about you not really knowing how to drive a car was true.”

Molly pulled away to see that, yes, Mary was laughing at her, just a little, but then, so was John. They were both horrible. She pouted, then glared when she saw the pout wasn’t working. Mary gave her husband a look, then sighed and held Molly again. Molly knew she was being a big crybaby, but honestly, she was just so relieved she could actually have a good cry now that she didn’t care. Having to hold oneself together while trying to get a piece of machinery to move without exactly knowing how, and getting at least half of Scotland Yard “teaching” her how to move the gear shifts, or press the clutch, or whatever they were, was maddening, as well as Sally having to interrupt to calm Molly down every time she came to a stoplight to remind her that she was in an “active” police car and didn’t have to stop. “Molly,” Mary said softly.

“Mm-hm?” Molly is still hugging her hard.

“Need to breathe a bit,” she said, a bit strangled.

“Oh! Sorry!” Molly said, letting go, and the other woman coughs, making her feel guilty. She blushed. “I’m so sorry!” Awkwardly, she bent down to open the cat carrier.

Mary shook her head, her large blue eyes wide in wonder. “Good heavens, girl, I’m surprised you don’t join up with the army yourself!”

“Oh God, no!” Molly nearly dropped poor Toby. “No offense,” she said quickly to John, who smirked.

“None taken,” he said with a wan smile, as if he was used to have IV drips in his arm and lying in a hospital gown in a hospital bed under a hospital blanket. “It’s a bit unfair that you’re the one who got to beat up the bad guys, while I was the one who was beaten.”

Molly sat on the floor with a thump, putting Toby on her lap. As she tried to soothe herself by petting her cat, she said, “It’s only thanks to my stupid brother that I accidentally know how to toss people about in my sleep. And that Moriarty’s men were stupid enough to try and chloroform me on the way to the ‘safehouse’, but I suppose as we were being followed by paparazzi, putting a hood over my head would’ve been a bit obvious.”

John shook his head slightly. “Not many people have the kind of, um, training you’ve had outside of kung fu movies, Mols.”

“That’s what Sherlock said,” she remarked absently as Toby purred. Then she looked up to see her married friends wearing identical smirks. “You two are horrible.”

Mary chuckled, then patted the brunette lightly on the head. “You’re a dear, you know that? Most women would go running and screaming from what you survived, but we saw you on the telly, looking as brave as could be, and telling that Adler woman she could go and f--”

“Mary,” John interrupted her, “I think she knows what she said.” But there’s a matching twinkle in his eye to go with his wife’s.

“I wanted to,” Molly admitted, “I wanted to go running and screaming. But I did what I had to do to get here, even if it scared me to death. And if I had to use the paparazzi to get a message to Irene, then fine. I wasn’t thinking straight anyways.”

John gave her a searching look, not too dissimilar from Sherlock’s. “I’d say you think straighter than most people would have in that situation.”

“Not you,” Molly said, confused.

He chuckled, then winced. Putting a hand lightly on his side, he said, “Yes, even me. Nobody is born a soldier, Molly.”

“But I’m not a soldier,” she argued, “I’m just, just me.”

Mary smiled and leaned over to look at Molly’s head. “Has anyone checked you out?” she asked. “There’s an awful lot of bruises.”

“Um, no,” Molly admitted. “I think I’ve been running on nerves for the past half hour or so.”

“Then you should be hurting soon,” John said in his doctor voice. “Mary, love, go see to her injuries. And maybe get her some paracetamol and some water. You can leave Toby with me.”

“Are you sure?” Molly asked, and the blonde man nodded. “All right, then.” When she tried to get to her feet, she groaned. “Oh, God. Ow, ow, ow…”

Mary chuckled and picked Toby out of her hands and put him on her husband’s lap, then helped Molly up. “Up you get,” she said, “we’ll just go to the loo since it’s close.”

Molly was honestly surprised to see that she wasn’t seriously injured, even if she was, as Mary put it, “fighting in close quarters” as well as having survived a car accident without a seat belt. She must’ve picked that phrase up from John, Molly supposed. Part of the time, Molly could see herself in the bathroom mirror, and found herself agreeing for the most part with Mary’s cataloguing of her injuries: bruised and split knuckles from punching, bruises on her calves from soft-soled trainers, slight bruising on the forearms from being restrained and slight chemical burns on her face because of the amount of chloroform used. What she disagreed with was Mary’s assessment of her head bruises, as Mary deemed they came from headbutting, while Molly said it was from the car accident. Mary photographed the injuries with her phone, then treated each injury with supplies from the bathroom. “You really didn’t know what you were getting yourself into, did you,” she stated.

Molly sighed. “No,” she said as she put her clothes back on. “I mean, I tend to trip over my feet as often as I do my words.”

Mary shook her head, smiling slightly, then fixed Molly’s hair a bit. “I think Sherlock Holmes picked the right woman to be his fiancée, even if he didn’t know it.”

Molly frowned. “What? You do know that it’s fake, right?”

The small smile stayed on the blonde woman’s face. “Well, this is real,” she tapped the ring on Molly’s left hand, “just as much as these.” And she rapped Molly’s knuckles sharply.

“Ouch!” Molly yelped, pulling her hand to herself and opening the bathroom door. “That hurt!”


	53. Chapter 53

Sherlock is standing before the floor-to-ceiling windows, the high-rise making it seem as if he were among the stars. But he’s not looking out at London’s skyline, nor at the barely-visible stars. He’s looking into his mind palace as he waits for his actual arch-enemy.

Two hours before he left the crowded hospital room, Lestrade had just left to relieve Sgt. Donovan in her watch over Mrs. Hudson and her sister. Mary, who had not only bought enough takeaway to feed everyone in John’s room but also the small police unit outside, also bought some wine, which she poured into cheap plastic cups as soon as the detective inspector left. “Wouldn’t want him to feel left out,” is what she said, but she winked at Sherlock as she did so.

He’d sighed, then allowed her to pour him a cup as well. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t great, either, precisely what he’d expect of a cheap wine from Sainsbury’s. Even John helped himself to a cup, and winked at everyone before downing it in a few noisy gulps. “Spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down,” he’d smirked.

“That is neither sugar or medicine,” Sherlock had sniffed. “It is, however, on the level of what we were served at that restaurant.”

Molly had blushed, but he ascribed it to the alcohol rather than any real stimulus. “Have a seat, Sherlock, you’re making me dizzy,” she’d said, waving him to Lestrade’s empty chair.

He’d shook his head, continuing to pace. This was no time to slow his mind, especially since Moriarty was still out there. At the same time, however, he knew that the “Professor” would only tip his hand when and where he felt like it. It annoyed him to no end that he was at the mercy of a lunatic.

Then he looked at the three lunatics left in the hospital room. There was John Watson, sitting up in his bed, still flirting with his wife and teasing Molly. There was Mary Watson, formerly Morstan, flirting right back at her husband and likewise teasing Molly. He stared at them, thinking they looked more like a family than his own did, and that if Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were there, they’d fit in the picture, too. Neatly. Smiling. Well.

He’d sat in the corner, thinking about recent events, trying to come up with a game plan. But Molly, her eyes practically crossing, waved him over. “Lemme give you something,” she slurred.

“Ooh, ooh, is it kisses?” Mary had beamed, her eyes glazed over with alcohol. She’d giggled when Sherlock glared at her, but subsided when John stroked her short blonde hair.

Molly continued to flail, that is, wave him over, and he decided to come over rather than have her fall over from her chair and legitimately stay in the hospital for a concussion. When he reached her side, she sighed, then pulled out a small packet and held it up. “Thought you might need it after a while,” she’d mumbled before dropping her head back onto the bed next to Mary, while he took the nicotine patch out of its packet and applied it to his arm.

“Hm.”

“He’s not your rival, you know,” she’d twisted her head to what looked like an uncomfortable angle. “But he’s not your soulmate, either.”

He’d pursed his lips. “Do you think you are?” he’d said acidly, ignoring the pointed look John shot him.

“ ‘Course not,” she’d smiled. “You told me, nope, the other Sherlock told me, you’re gonna grow up an’ be a beekeeper in Sussex.” Odd. That actually didn’t sound too bad. Then she’d giggled. “If you can’t stick that amazing brain into a robot or sumfing.”

Yes, that sounds more like it, bad grammar and pronunciation aside. He’d never thought of beekeeping before. Wonder what put that into the other Sherlock’s head? He’d noticed the blonde man joining his wife in unconsciousness, and he started to make his way to the door.

Then she’d yawned, and the cat had walked over her shoulders to sit in John’s lap. “You gonna come back after you get nicotined up and beat Morery-er, Moyer, mm, the bad guy?” she’d twisted her head back into a more comfortable position, but mumbling into the blanket.

“Yes, yes,” he’d said abruptly, and paused briefly at the doorway to look at the sleeping family. He wasn’t sure why he did that, but he did.

“You’re going to do something stupid, aren’t you?” John had croaked, not even opening his eyes.

“Just going out for a smoke,” he’d said mildly, letting the door close.

“If you get killed, I’m gonna shoot you,” the smaller man sighed, then subsided.

Sherlock had smirked briefly, then left, using the same “going out for a smoke” excuse that went over better with the cops. Of course it did.


	54. Chapter 54

And now here he was, standing in the Shard, where Moriarty had promised to meet him. Because as soon as he stepped through the front doors of the hospital, he got a text from a blocked number: “Top of the Shard, don’t be late. – The Professor”. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t know what was going to happen, but he had a few ideas of how it would work out.

A noise, so soft he’d barely notice it, safe for the fact that nothing else was on, caught his attention, and he spun around. A well-dressed, well-groomed man with slicked-back dark hair and large dark eyes, smiled at him. “Hello, Sherlock,” he said, a slight Irish accent tingeing his voice. “So nice to meet you face to face after all these years.”

“Can’t say I feel the same,” Sherlock said blandly as the other man walked towards him. Left-handed, control issues, expensive taste in spite of, no, because of his background, excellent at strategy – the words around the man seemed to disappear once James Moriarty stopped in front of him. “It’s a bit underwhelming, isn’t it?”

“On the contrary,” the shorter man said, with a charisma so palpable it was like the feeling of an impending storm. “It’s been very enlightening. For me, at least. I can’t think what it must be like for you. Poor little Sherlock.”

Sherlock frowned. “What?”

Moriarty smiled slowly, obviously savoring his control over the meeting. “Poor little Sherlock,” he repeated. “So good at figuring out the past, but utter crap at planning for the future.” His smile turned bright, manic. “But then, the future is my game, Sherlock, and it’s a game you will always lose. It was fun while it lasted, seeing you chase after every little thing. Will you keep dancing for me? Or will you be boring, like everyone else?”

Sherlock scoffed. “I am never boring.”

“Yes, you are,” Moriarty corrected, like a teacher to a former prize pupil. “So easy to trap,” he drew out the words, his tone and expression mocking the consulting detective as he walked around Sherlock, “you were so BORING!” he snapped suddenly.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. A bonafide lunatic. Well. That’s interesting. “Was I? I hadn’t thought so.”

Moriarty looked at him in disgust. “Completely boring. You used to shine like a diamond, so sharp, so brilliant. But now you’re dulled, worn down by friends,” and his lips curled, “and women.” His eyes flickered to the ring Sherlock forgot he still wore. “You’re one of them now. One of the ordinary people.”

Sherlock was so offended, he almost strangled himself with all the words he wanted to tell this man. He was even more insulted when Moriarty began laughing at him. “What’s so funny?” he said in freezing tones.

“You’re so predictable,” the shorter man wheezed. “Oh, you are like the perfect toy, but you know what?” he said, suddenly sobering up. “I’m tired of playing with boring toys. You’ll have to be thrown away, like the others.” That’s what was off about the timing, Sherlock thought, there were others before him. But after his cancer, he stopped waiting. Did he really think Sherlock was worth waiting for? Then he frowned. What was he, some kind of a blushing virgin bride at the altar? Then Moriarty smiled and skipped to the side, his hands behind his back. “Well, if you can provide a bit of fun first, I might put off your death a little longer.”

Oh. How dull. Sherlock sneered. “What makes you think that you’ll succeed in killing me where others have failed?”

“Oh,” Moriarty raised his eyebrows slightly. “You think you’ll survive this?”

“This?” Sherlock repeated. “What is this? A meeting between two men. Dull.”

The shorter man shook his head, then pulled a remote control from his pocket. “Look at this,” he said, and a large monitor on the wall flickered on. It was a split screen of windows, one peering into a cosy country home, Mrs. Hudson settling DI Lestrade with a cup of tea, another on a light-haired man in a hospital bed, still another on his wife beside him, and the fourth on a long-haired girl sleeping beside them. All the screens helpfully had target sights on them. “You see,” he said, “they will all die if you don’t. So nice of you to put them in such close proximity to each other, it saved my snipers the extra trouble.” He smirked at Sherlock’s expression. “Oh, but those boring little souls don’t have to die. You could die instead.”

Sherlock smirked back. “Go ahead, kill them,” he said. “It’s just a waste of time.”

Now the “Professor” frowned, then pouted and shook his head. “Oh, you’re trying to save them by pretending not to care for them. How touching.”

Sherlock sighed noisily. “No, I really don’t care,” he said flatly, taking off his ring and tossing it at Moriarty, who caught it neatly. “I don’t belong to them. You’ve seen them, so placid in thought, so pedestrian, the only way they get anywhere is by accident.” He walked back to the glass wall. “They’re like everyone else in this city, like anyone else in the world: so easily dissected, so easy to read, so dull. Once in a while, they provide a bit of excitement.” Then he looked back at Moriarty. “You should know, you’re the one who sets things in motion. I suppose I should thank you for making things less boring. Although, if you actually do manage to kill me or something as pedantic as all that, I suppose you’ll have to kill yourself afterwards out of sheer boredom. That is, if the cancer doesn’t kill you first.”

“What makes you think it’s back?” Moriarty challenged him.

“Too easy,” Sherlock said, striding up to him until they’re face to face, “even if you hadn’t hacked into your own account, I can tell that it’s returned. The lights may be off, but I can tell you’ve applied makeup to your face to keep the pallor and bags around the eyes to a minimum. Your posture is a touch careful, in spite of the low-level radiation dosages that’s started to affect your hair again. Slick it back all you want, it’s a bit obvious.” He smiled viciously. “So what, this is a last hurrah? You don’t want to spend it blowing up people in Bangladesh, burying them in Swiss icecaps or, what was it, poisoning them through their trainers? Thanks for the little gift at St. Bart’s, by the way.” He motioned to a pair of white trainers in the corner of the room.

Moriarty looks pleased. “You’re welcome,” he said. “I just thought it would be a nice touch to end things with where they began. My first murder, your first little case. How did it feel, to finally be vindicated after all these years?”

“Vindicated?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “You’re assuming that I was anything less than myself previously.” He started to walk out of the room, when the lights went on and he’s facing a heavyset man pointing a gun at him. He chuckled, delighted. “Really? Well, at least you don’t fail to live up to the clichés of a criminal mastermind. I should’ve brought that cat with me so you’d have something to keep you company in your last days.”

There is steel in the “Professor”s voice when he says, “Kill him.”

Sherlock smirked. “I doubt it.” He tilts his head, and grimaces as Moran’s brain spatter hits him. “Did you have to make it so close?” he complained.

“You killed him?” Moriarty is practically shrieking. “WHY?”

“He wasn’t a very nice man,” John Watson said when the large man fell to the floor. Then he looked at Sherlock. “I hate you, too,” he said evenly.

“Of course,” Sherlock said blithely. “Well, it has been fun,” he said to Moriarty, whose face was doing interesting things, “but I’m afraid we must go.” He smiled thinly at the other man. “You see, you’re not the only hacker in the building.”

Moriarty, however, is looking at the large monitor. “You set a repeating feed delay, didn’t you?”

Sherlock grimaced. “It was just my idea,” he said, looking like he bit into a lemon, “that’s all.”

“Oh, ho, the great Sherlock Holmes being humble,” John rolled his eyes. “That’s one for the ages.”

“Shut up,” Sherlock snapped, “you took long enough.”

John made a face. “You didn’t even know I’d be here.”

“Hello-ooo?” Moriarty snapped at them, figuratively and literally. “Remember? Crazed arch-villain here?”

Sherlock curled his lip. “Crazed, yes. Arch-villain, no. That distinction belongs to another.”

“What, your brother?” Moriarty sneered.

Sherlock shook his head mock sadly, then walked over and tapped the Irishman’s left hand. When Moriarty opened it, nonplussed, Sherlock pointed at the ring. “You might think of yourself as a puppetmaster, but you’re a rank amateur when compared with Violetta Holmes.”

Now the consulting criminal looked insulted. “I killed people!”

Sherlock shrugged. “Anyone can do that.”

Then Moriarty launched into a tirade that lasted approximately five minutes, detailing his crimes. “You think your little mumsy can outdo that?” he practically spat into Sherlock’s face. Sherlock only smirked. The criminal stared at him, then sighed. “Just shoot me,” he told John.

“Sherlock’s right,” the GP and sometime-blogger-and-crime-fighter said. “You’re dying of cancer much faster than a court of appeals could sentence you. I think I’ll let you live,” he smiled nastily.

Moriarty stared at John, then Sherlock, with the same “are you kidding me?” look. Then he sighed. “Fine,” he sighed, then pulled out a gun and pointed it at Sherlock, who was still rather close to him. “Have it your way.” And he pulled the trigger.

“John, no!” Sherlock shouted, but the blonde man was faster than Sherlock could talk, and the consulting criminal died with a smile on his face and a bullet in his forehead, his empty gun clattering to the ground. “Dammit,” he swore softly.

John looked stricken. “I thought he…”

“Exactly,” Sherlock muttered. “Death by cop. Of a sort,” he amended, seeing his friend look away.

John shook his head, then pulled out a walkie-talkie from his black jacket. “Sorry about that,” he said.

“I’m sorry our sharpshooters didn’t hit you first,” Mycroft Holmes’ voice came in, with only mild static. “I shall have to have some words with them.” Then the headlights of a helicopter filled the room, further illuminating the two dead bodies and the two live ones. “Please take the lift down, the car is waiting for you.”

Sherlock Holmes turned off the camera in his suit jacket button hole, then walked briskly to the door, followed by John Watson. The trip to the car, and in the car, was silent, broken only by Mycroft’s voice squawking through the walkie-talkie when the car came to their stop. “John, you may consult with Detective Inspector Lestrade in the morning. For now, you need your rest. Sherlock, I need to have a word with you.”

The two friends exchanged a look, then got out of the black limousine at opposite ends. John walked stiffly towards the hospital, while Sherlock walked towards the helicopter that had followed them from the Shard, his heavy black coat billowing behind him.


	55. Chapter 55

Molly Hooper was having an odd morning. For one thing, she was lying in bed with Sherlock Holmes, with a blanket just barely covering him down there and looking very smug. For another, her entire body was aching like she’d gone ten rounds in a wrestling match, and her head felt nearly as bad. She froze, then double-checked that she was wearing clothes under the blanket. “What happened?” she asked in a very small voice.

He leaned forward, smug smile still firmly on his face. “Was our wedding night that forgettable?” he asked, his baritone voice practically a bass as it rumbled through. “I think we shall have to remedy that.”

Her eyes practically fell out of her head. “WEDDING!” she shrieked, then groaned, holding her head. “Ow, ow, oooh,” she whimpered.

He laughed, then grabbed his dressing gown from his side of the floor and threw it on. To her relief, he was already wearing boxers, but it still wasn’t much to begin with. Bloody Sherlock Holmes, trying to give her a heart attack! “You really shouldn’t mix alcohol with medication,” he smirked, “you already have a low tolerance as it is.”

She glared at him. “Why are you here?” she asked.

He handed her a glass of water with two pills with the delivery if not the clothes of a period drama-butler, except for that sardonic look on his face. Perhaps that belonged on a period drama-butler, too. “Swallow this first,” he said. “Best if you lean on an elbow first.”

She did as he said, her eyes still on him, as if daring him to do anything more suspicious or outrageous. Her eyes still narrowed, she asked, “All I remember is falling asleep in John’s hospital room after drinking. So what are we doing here?”

He sighed loudly, then opened his mouth. “After you fell asleep, I was ready to throw my lot in with Moriarty after he texted me, to be honest,” he said. “Then Mummy called and threatened to shut down my work and have me declared legally married to Irene Adler that instant unless I faced James Moriarty properly. That was abhorrent, and I told Mummy in no uncertain terms that I would never marry a woman I despised with a child of uncertain parentage, and there was no way she could possibly stop my work. She happened to bring up more than a few youthful indiscretions to remind me what exactly she could do, and after that not-so-brief threat, I met Mycroft in the backseat of a taxicab, whereupon he equipped me with a mini-videocamera and I went up to the top office in the Shard to talk with Moriarty. John, as arranged, came in as backup, killed Moriarty’s henchman, his number two man, I suspect, and subsequently killed Moriarty when it appeared that he would shoot me. I wouldn’t bring up his act of heroism, however, he seemed to take it very badly, much worse than he did after he shot the cabbie. Then he went back to convalesce in the hospital and Mycroft updated Lestrade on the sequence of events, providing him with an unedited copy of the meeting, and we took you back here. Oh, and I was told to wish you a happy one month anniversary. Why are people so fixated on such petty anniversaries, when congratulations for the twentieth or fiftieth year of an actual marriage would make much more sense?”

 _How did he not pass out from all those words coming out so quickly?_ she wondered. “Moriarty’s really dead?” Molly said after a beat.

“That is what I said,” Sherlock said stiffly.

“Did you hit your head again?” she asked.

“No,” he said grimly.

Then she grabbed him by the gown sleeve. “So when the hell did you get your memories back?” she demanded, in spite of the fact that she pulled him on top of her.

He looked rather amused, rather than threatened. “You’re getting pretty good at this, Molly Hooper,” he noted, repositioning himself so that he wasn’t crushing her, but was comfortable. “Not exceptional, but fairly decent.”

“Did your mother call off both engagements?” Molly continued on.

He shook his head. “Just one.”

She sighed, then threw her head against the pillow violently. “Great.” She stared up at the ceiling, wondering if Mycroft still had that offer on a nearby flat open. She doubted it, though, if he was on Mrs. Holmes’ side.

“I should hope so,” he said acidly, “getting her to break it to Adler was one of the high points of the morning.”

“Ad--?” Molly frowned, then stared at him. “What time is it?”

“Eleven oh-eight a.m.,” he said promptly, “St. Bart’s was notified of your own convalescence due to the extreme events of yesterday. You’re welcome.”

“Thank you,” she said without thinking, then she grabbed a pillow and swung it at him. “You mean we’re still _engaged???”_ she shrieked as he fell off the bed.

He came back up like a bouncy toy and pouted, and the fact that his lips were naturally fuller than hers was completely unfair, genetically. “I had to clean this off after Moriarty got his hands on it,” he held up his left hand, “I was tempted to clean yours for good measure.”

She groaned. “Sherlock, why are we still engaged? Irene Adler’s out of the picture, and you don’t need to prove anything to anyone any more.”

He narrowed his already-narrow eyes at her. “Tell me, why do you choose men unlike your father?”

She blinked, then scrunched her face in confusion. “I don’t know. Bad habits are hard to break, I suppose.”

“Wrong,” he said. “You tend to choose, and I quote, ‘Quick, capable, headstrong men who are willing to dismiss me’.” He ignored the sharp intake of breath she took and went on, “Then you went on to describe your father, who was, according to you, a good man, smart in his own way, and strong. I would say that you don’t choose men like your father because you already resemble him in that manner, and you are looking for someone to complement those inherent qualities.”

Oh. She never thought of it that way. That still didn’t speak very highly of her taste, however. “All right. But what does that have to do with our fake engagement still being on?”

His expression turned mulish, and she was afraid he’d never tell her. But he grumbled, “Mummy gave us her blessing.”

“WHAT?” Molly roared, grabbing at his collar again, then collapsed again. “Honestly, how does your family manage to provoke me so much?” she groaned, hitting her bed with her left hand.

“Did you know that you still exhibit signs of sexual attraction to me? Your heartrate increases, your pupils dilate significantly, and you are more prone to blushing when I’m around,” he states as drily as he would a lecture on differing topsoils.

“If you would stop prancing about naked or kissing me unexpectedly, I’m sure that would go away,” Molly said, “and why are you still on top of me?”

“I do not prance about,” he glared.

“Yes, you do, and you’re still on top of me,” she grumbled, trying to shove him off. “Ugh! Where is my super-strength when I need it?”

He smirked and settled himself snugly on top of her. She did her best to remind herself that she really, really didn’t appreciate that a fine specimen of a man, er, her flatmate, was shamelessly flirting with her, since he could not possibly have any reason to do so. “You also care about me deeply, or you wouldn’t be my flatmate, or feed me, or take up a false engagement with me, or keep me in bed.”

Now she covered her face, burning red. “Will you stop that? It doesn’t matter! You don’t care about me like that, so it doesn’t matter!” And she ignored the fact that, for some strange reason, her heart was breaking all over again.

Suddenly, the weight was literally lifted off her shoulders, among other body parts, and she opened her eyes. He was sitting up, but staring down at her, as if seeing her for the first time, just like he had after he’d gotten amnesia. “Do you really believe that, Molly Hooper?” his voice distant, even as his eyes were piercing.

To her shame, tears sprang to her eyes, and her nose filled. “Everyone and their cat knows that you don’t want anyone else, that you’re married to your work,” she said, trying to turn away and rub at her eyes and nose in peace, “you want to grow old and live in the countryside and raise bees. That’s all right. I have my own dreams for my future, too.”

“I know,” he said, and if she didn’t know better, she would say he was sad. “I saw how you slept in the hospital room. Being part of a loving family, with strong bonds and hardworking ethics, doing the best you can and getting respect in your chosen profession, that’s your dream. Nothing fancy, nothing too complicated, just a lot of trust, hope, and a child or two to share with your husband all that love from that generous heart of yours.”

She sniffled, then frowned. “How can you tell what my dreams are?”

His lips flattened. “I can tell every time you open your mouth,” he said, “I can tell by where your gaze lands, by the clothes in your closet and the clothes that aren’t, I can tell by the steadiness in your hands as you autopsy, I can tell by the laughter in your voice with friends and coworkers, I can tell by how gently you treat your cat to how roughly you rate yourself, I can tell by the lift of your chin to the wobble of your lips, I can tell by the weariness in your posture and the smell of your tea. I think we could share your dream.”

“You do?” the words slipped out past her brain gates. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say he was making poetry about her, of all people.

He nodded curtly. “You asked me, when I was crying, if I remembered. I cried because I could not. I cried because I was missing the man I became, the man who had become a ghost in his own body. But you reminded me that I still had London, that I still had my work. You grounded me to this life, to this world, when you could have easily untethered the both of us and freed yourself. For that, I thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, more than a bit in shock.

“I have tried to be,” he frowned, “normal about this, Molly Hooper. But none of this is normal. I am not normal.” His frown deepened when her lips twitched up. “Shut up. So I will be blunt. I am sexually attracted to you. I care about you as well. I think I may even love you, if what I feel approximates what John seems to have for Mary. But I am not a nice person. Sometimes, I do and say things that are what John says are Not Good. Sometimes I get bored. Sometimes I am on cases and I don’t eat or sleep, and I don’t like people bothering me. Sometimes I do experiments on body parts and with chemicals. I may occasionally kiss you. On other occasions, our lives may be in danger. I may come home badly wounded, and it’s possible you might have to tend to John Watson as well, or other people we might come across. Some or all of those things may happen in the same week, or the same day. Will you marry me, Molly Hooper?”

“Oh my God,” she breathed. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” She sat up and checked his head, making him irritable.

“Of course I am,” he snapped, but she could see how thin his blustery exterior was, for once.

“You’re right, none of this is normal,” she said, dropping her hands. “I would like to go on some proper dates, however.”

“What?” he blinked.

“Before I marry you,” she said. “To be blunt, yes, I will marry you, but I’d like to go on some dates, some of which may involve you actually eating more than a few bites and being romantic.” Then she smiled.

His answering smile is relieved, and she wondered when he became so transparent. Or does he trust her as much as he does John? “I do trust you as much as I do John,” he said, making her stare in shock. “Don’t be surprised, I told you, I can tell by what you say and by the expression on your face. Likewise, I could tell what John was thinking by those very things.” Then his expression turns pensive. “I’ll try to do my best to eat,” he said, “does running down alleyways count as romantic?”

She sighed. “Only from the third date,” she said. “It had better be worth it.”

He smiled, and it was a very unsafe smile. “Oh, it will be,” he practically purred, placing a hand on her wrist. “Oh, your heartrate just went up.”

Her small fingers went to his jugular vein. “So did yours,” she noted, and pulled him in for a kiss. He turned the tables, so to speak, and pushed her back down on the bed, making her squeal. “Sherlock!” she squeaked underneath him, but she’s smiling.

“Molly,” he smiled back, and proceeded to snog the living daylights out of her.

“Oh, not again!” Lestrade’s put-upon voice sounded near the doorway, and the door slammed shut.

Sherlock looked grumpy at being interrupted. “Stupid Mycroft, he was supposed to have briefed him ages ago.” In a louder voice, he said, “Didn’t you see the footage?”

The greying man’s embarrassment is audible. “Yeah, but I’d like to go over a few points not covered by your little recorded tete-a-tete. When you two are presentable, I’ll be downstairs in the living room.” And they could hear him pointedly clumping down the stairs, as opposed to his stealthy flight up.

“Oh my God,” Molly groaned, “when will people just start texting me instead of barging into my room?”

“Excellent question,” Sherlock said, “we shall have to bring that up with him.”

“We?” she stared at him. “I’m not the one who faced a mad criminal last night.”

“The better to underscore your point,” he said, hopping out of bed.

Her eyes widened before she covered them. “Could you please straighten up your boxers?” she wailed.

“Why?” he said, unperturbed. “You’ve seen me unclothed before – oh.” She didn’t like the way that sounded. “You haven’t seen me there, have you. And male frontal nudity’s a bit of a sticky point in Western culture, isn’t it? Would you rather go by feel rather than sight? I don’t mind.”

“I do mind,” Molly said, feeling her entire head and neck blush. Is he trying to kill her?

“Come on, Molly, here we go,” he said, suddenly very close to her, and to her shock, he carries her out of bed. Her eyes fly open, and she’s relieved to find that he’s fully clothed. “And a bit disappointed,” he noted, “how kind. We must let Lestrade know you’d rather have him texting, correct?” And he carried her down the stairs, her wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in his shoulder, because he’s so embarrassing!

“Ah, Detective Inspector,” Sherlock said in an overly-charming way, “would you be so kind as to text your arrival in the future rather than show up unannounced in the doorway? My fiancée and I would rather not be found in a more compromising position in the future.”

After that horrifying statement, she doesn’t dare look at the DI. “Oh my God,” she whispers, practically digging a hole in Sherlock’s shoulder. She can feel him barely stifling his laughter, damn the man.

“Uh, yeah, sorry about that,” Lestrade apologizes, also sounding rather embarrassed. “I’ll do just that.”

“Thanks,” Molly said in a small voice, then pulled away to see Sherlock grinning wolfishly at her. Oh, no. He is not looking like that at her right here, right now. “I’m going to kill you when he leaves,” she promises.

“I’m looking forward to it,” he said, then winked.

“Will you two stop flirting long enough for Sherlock to answer a few questions?” Lestrade grumbled.

“Maybe,” Sherlock shrugged, and Molly stormed off into the kitchen to make some tea. “I see the painkillers are kicking in, my love!” he called after her.

“Lestrade, if I kill him now, would it still be considered self-defense?” Molly said, pouring the water into the kettle.

“Only if I don’t do it first,” the detective inspector said.

“Oh, Lestrade,” Sherlock said so dramatically, Molly almost swore they were filming a soap opera, “I had no idea you harbored such feelings for me. Would you mind being the bit on the side?”

“Killing him now, Molly!”

“Thank you!”

THE END (of Sherlock?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh, I'd forgotten how long this was! Sorry about that. Thanks for reading, those of you who stuck around to read my horrible mashup! :D This weekend, I'll be cosplaying the BBC versions of Sherlock, John & Mary, but tonight, I'll be watching the latest ep of "Elementary" ;D It'll be an uber-Holmes weekend!


End file.
